All In
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: AU: Prequel to Another Chance. Olivia is a starting her senior year at Harvard and Fitz is in his last year of Law School. They meet one night, by chance, and feel a connection instantly. But life is always more complicated than love. How will they come together, and what will rip them apart?
1. Shifting Trajectories

**So I finally started the prequel for Another Chance. They're slightly different in this version of the story - being 20 years younger and all, but that's what makes it fun. **

**For this chapter I kept thinking of this Ryan O'Connell quote: "I don't believe in love at first sight but I do believe in seeing someone from across the room and knowing instantly that they're going to matter to you." For me it's the epitome of Olitz. **

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She doesn't want to be here. The music is too loud and she's tired from packing and moving in. It's too crowded and too stuffy; it's too – everything. She needs a drink. Because if she's going to do this – be social and outgoing, she really needs to have some alcohol in her system, some tequila pumping through her veins. She heads straight to the bar, pushing past people on the dance-floor; a girl on a mission.

"Wow, you've become quite the alcohol enthusiast." Abby says in her patented tone, the one that sounds like a joke, but really, it's not.

"You insisted we go out, I'm insisting we do tequila sho-" But she's cut off by the redhead's hand pulling her arm back.

"Wait." She's yelling into her ear, trying to talk over music. "There's the guy. The one I've been telling you about." She gives her a pleading smile, the one that lets Olivia know her friend's already made up her mind.

"Fine. Go. I'll just head home."

A flash of horror. "No! Liv, you can't leave. I need you here. And more importantly, you need to be here. You've had a hell of a year, you need to let loose for a bit; have some fun, have a one night stand; do something." She tugs at her arm gently, her lips forming a pout. "Come on!"

It's not charming or adorable, it's irritating. But it's also true. She did have a hell of a year, and it's her last year before Law School, so she really should – stay, socialize, dance, relax. Maybe, find a cute guy to make out. Find someone. To make her forget, even if just for a moment, that she's completely damaged. "Ughhhhh. Fine! But you'll owe me big time. I'll be at the bar if you need me. Drinking." She turns around and pushes her way through the crowd, finally reaching the bar. As she slaps her hands on the sticky surface, she exclaims, "Land." Someone behind her laughs heartily, but before she can turn around and see she feels someone's hand on her ass. She turns around, her mind on fire – she hates this part of going out, the annoying drunk guys who think it's all fine, drunkenness making them cross the line,hell, making them forget the line was ever there.

"What do you think you're doing?" She's faced by a handsome, tall guy, dark hair falling into his eyes, making him blink erratically.

"Hey, chill babe. Let me get you a drink."

"Not interested." She says through a plastered smile, annoyance seeping from her narrowed eyes.

"Hey, hey, now. You got to give guy a chance. What you drinking, lemme get it."

"I'm fine. _Really_!"

"No, you're not." He reaches for her arm and she flinches, stepping away, walking into someone – his chest to her back. She looks up to apologize and is met by a pair of warm blue eyes and a sympathetic smile. "You need to relax babe."

"Hey baby, this guy bothering you?" She looks up, confused, but he just winks at her. She turns around and chuckles as the guy who harassed her looks half-terrified. "She's taken, you have a problem with that?" And there's a tone in his voice, a silent threat that sends out the loudest message. The guy steps away, and stumbles onto the dance floor. She doesn't realize she' leaning into the Guy from the Bar, until he steps away, giving her space.

"Thanks."

"No problem." She turns around, so that she's finally facing him, and instantly their eyes are locked for a moment, a moment of eternity. She reminds herself to blink, turning her gaze to the floor, trying to think. "You're the girl from the cafeteria."

"What?" She can barely hear him, the music overpowering.

"Nothing. It's just that… I saw you in the cafeteria this morning. I watched you." She gives him a look. "Not creepy or anything. It's just that you were reading. And I mean a guy tripped and dropped his tray and you just never looked up. You just… I mean your focus. It's pretty impressive."

She blushes slightly, but the darkness covers it – she gets to keep her cool, to try and play it cool. "Problem from hell."

"What?"

"That's what I was reading."

He smiles, "It's one of my favorite books."

And suddenly, before she can think better of it she's asking him, "Can I get you a thank you drink?"

Before he can answer a guy slaps his shoulder, "Sorry we're late. Mellie took forever to get ready."

She can see his face falling, instantly, and he just mouths sorry, before a tall, over-dressed girl wraps her arms around his waist, "You can't, he has a girlfriend." She notices him flinch slightly, but she's not sure if it's at the word, or at the girl's movement.

"I'm Jake." The guy on his other side extends his hand and breaks the silence.

"Olivia." She says with a small smile.

"I'd love to dance with you." And she thinks she sees Him shooting Jake a look, but then she convinces herself it's just in her head. She should say no, she should – he seems like a nice guy, at least nice enough, but she doesn't like him and she can tell just from shaking his hand – they have no chemistry. With the Guy from the Bar, the one eyeing her now, even bumping into him – she felt this crazy electricity; she felt her breath hitch without even seeing him. And then, when their eyes met, they just, they connected. But she's embarrassed, and she wants to get away from Mellie, so she just nods her head gratefully and takes his hand.

She chats to Jake and they dance. The music pulsing through the air, through them. They get drinks and dance again, and keep that pattern – rinse and repeat. He's nice, friendly, great company. But the whole entire time, she's looking at Him. Mellie disappears again, shortly after they get their third drink, but he stays behind, at the bar. He's leaning back, his elbows on the cool surface, drink in hand and he's looking at her too. At first it's occasional glances; both of them trying to stay away, trying to look someplace else. Occasional glances to look at the other's features. The way his hand is gripping the glass, his knuckles almost white; the way her hips sway, Jake's hands on them; the way he licks his lips unconsciously; the way she bites her lip while looking at him. They glance in each other's direction and notice the little things, the details, little bits of their personality. But then, then they start lingering – lingering gazes at each other's body. His muscles, and the way that T-shirt hugs him; the way his jeans fit perfectly; her face, the full lips and the satin-like skin; her legs, her curves – swaying. Their eyes linger, longer, until everything else disappears, and the two of them, they're the only people in the room – the only two. Their eyes finally meet, they lock and never let go. She's moving and he's standing still, fighting with himself, breaking – this girl; she's everything. She's lost in his eyes, they cloud her mind; they make it focus on him, forget about everything else, everyone else. All she sees is Him.

"He has a girlfriend." Jake says. It's not hostile, it's just a reality-check. He's trying to be her friend, he's trying to be his friend. She looks at him, and he gives her a weak smile, a reassuring one; a smile that makes her want to cry – what is she doing; he's _just_ another guy and she, she's not this girl.

"I need some fresh air. I'll be right back." He just nods and steps aside.

Instantly, Fitz is moving. He steps in front of him, blocking his way, "You have a girlfriend."

"I know Jake. I just… I want to see if she's OK."

"She's fine, she just needed some air."

"Well, I need some air too."

"You'll hurt her. She doesn't deserve to get stuck in the middle of this. She doesn't deserve to be your last song before tying the knot. Don't do this." Fitz just looks at him; and then breathes in, but the air, it's too thick.

"Jake, it's sweet that you care. About me, about Mellie and the girl you just met, but I just need some air." And with that he pushes past him. He walks out into the cool Boston night. It's a lie. Of course it's a lie, it's not about the air, it's not about Oxygen; it's about her, about the girl.

"Hi." She knows it's him. She felt him. She's never met anyone like that, not a single person who's presence she could just feel, whose voice made her knees go weak; whose eyes could cloud her mind.

She opens her eyes, slowly exhaling. "Hi." They just stare at each other for a moment, quiet. "Sorry, about… earlier. I didn't know."

"No, I'm sorry. I… she, I wasn't sure she was coming. Sorry, she had no right to talk to you in that tone; she's just a little… she's just… Mellie." He's stumbling over his words, completely lost; a sad smile forming on his lips as he utters – Mellie. He plays with his fingers nervously, finally taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"Do you want one?" She smiles and nods her head.

She reaches for the cigarette, but then chuckles warily, "It's the last one."

"That's OK, you can have it." She takes it out and plays with it, rolling it between her fingers, pressing lightly, before looking up at him, daring him.

"We can share it." And she puts it between her lips, bending her head slightly, so that he can light it. He looks at her as he does it, the way the small flame illuminates her face, the way there's a spark in her eyes, a fire not yet alight. She inhales deeply, the sensation of the smoke burning her throat instantly calming her, grounding her. She exhales and he draws it in – it's soothing; it's breathing _her_ in. She offers it to him, and smiles as she notices him looking at the rim of red lipstick. She wants him to take it, she wants him to give in and she hates herself a little for it. He reaches for the cigarette and their fingers touch; his lingering over her delicate ones; their eyes in a duel – both refusing to look away, to look down, to even blink, to let reason in, to think. The cigarette is burning slowly, the hot ash bending slightly under gravity – until there's nothing left to hold it up and it falls down. It burns his skin; it makes them break their gaze; it shatters the moment. She drops the bud to the ground, watching her feet shift, as she presses it into concrete.

She can feel him watching her and she can barely breathe; she sees it before it starts happening. He reaches for her cheek, cupping it tenderly and then lifts her head, as he lowers his. He comes close, impossibly close – she can feel his hitched breaths. She closes her eyes and brings her hand up around his neck, closing the distance. Their lips crash. It's tender at first, new. But then their tongues are dueling, and it's passionate, desperate – lost all its innocence. They forget. They forget about the girlfriend, about Jake, about the club and the drunk guy; they forget that they just met, or that she doesn't know his name. They forget. Because he's never kissed anyone like this before, and he's never been kissed back like this; they've never been lost in a kiss. It doesn't feel like they've just met – he knows the spot on her neck that makes her lose her breath; and she knows how to nibble on his lip softly, how to bite it tenderly; he knows her eyes narrow when she's upset; and she knows he fidgets when he's sad; he knows she smells like lavender and she knows what his tongue tastes like. They finally pull away, breathless. She's dizzy and she doesn't know if it's the alcohol finally kicking in, or if it's the kiss; the mind-blowing, earth-shattering, most-amazing first kiss. His hand lingers on her cheek.

His phone vibrates and breaks the intimacy of silence. "Mellie" flashes across his screen, and she sees it, turning to the wall slightly, bending her head in frustration and shame. He shuts his phone off and pulls her to himself by the waist, but she puts her hands up on his chest and pushes him away. Reason finally coming in, she's been brought back to reality from a perfect dream.

"You have a girlfriend."

"It's complicated."

"So, you're not dating?" Her voice challenges him, but her eyes, they're pleading.

"We've been dating for years. Our families… we – "

"You're meant to get married." She finishes the sentence for him; her voice almost cold, but at least it's not breaking; it's steady. She turns around to leave, but his baritone stops her before she reaches the club door, "Please stay here, with me." The second part, she doesn't here – not the desperation, or the plea.

She doesn't turn around, no she can't look at him; she can't look into his eyes, they would change her mind. "Forget about me. And forget about this. It was just a drunken kiss."

"Oh come on!" He sighs in frustration. "We both know this is about more than a kiss!"

"It was a mistake." It's not a question, not for him anyway, and she doesn't give him a chance to speak before she walks away.

He pulls his hands through his hair and leans against the cool wall. He has to know her. He can't forget. He doesn't want to. There are pivotal moments, moments that define our lives – and this, meeting her, was one.

She enters the club; the sweat in the air making her lungs close up. She has to be around him. She can't forget. She doesn't want to. There are pivotal moments, moments that define our lives – and this, meeting him, might be a chance to turn hers around. She shakes her head in frustration and descends down the stairs; disappearing into the crowd, letting the loud beats empty her mind.

The moments that change our trajectory, that make us feel things we could only dream – those are the moments worth remembering, moments worth re-living; worth chasing. For them it was that moment, in the early morning when they stepped away with swollen lips and realized, breathlessly, wordlessly – that this, this was something more than just a kiss.

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**I really, really hope you guys liked that. I was super nervous about starting this, because so many of you like ****_Another Chance_****, and I really didn't want to botch it. So let me know about your thoughts :)**


	2. Staying Away

**So, this was meant to be a short chapter, and I was meant to clean my room. I ended up writing for the whole morning, and my room is still a jumbled mess of books and clothes. I hope you'll enjoy :)**

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She can feel his tongue against the tip of hers; the warmth, the little imperfections. And his hand is gliding down her body, pressing her into him. Her hands are travelling down his back, as his knee pushes her legs apart. There is a beeping sound in the distance, but she doesn't want to break the kiss; she doesn't need to breathe in – no, she's breathing him. But the beeping, it's getting louder, closer, more threatening until it's all disappearing – his lips on hers; the heat of his body, his scent. She stretches her arm out and slaps her alarm, not opening her eyes. She turns on her stomach, frustrated, and screams into her pillow, hitting the mattress with her fists. It's been the same dream, or really variants of it, for the past week. The locations changed – the club alley, the pool, the shower, a public bathroom; but the essence of the dream, that stayed the same, it's always him, and always her falling for him. She finally gets up, heading to the bathroom – a cold shower the only remedy at this point; but she stops in her tracks as she reaches the door – _Meet me in cafeteria_.

Crap.

Damn-it-Abby!

Shit!

She's been avoiding the cafeteria, successfully, for a week. She's been grabbing a muffin and a coffee each morning from that café near the library. Muffins that are far too sweet, and far too dry – all at the same time, and coffee that tastes like tarmac, burning her throat as she swallows – it's not soothing, not like the smoke of the cigarette they shared. She's been avoiding the cafeteria, avoiding him, successfully, for a week, and now – Damn-it-Abby.

She's standing in front of her closet, biting her nails. It's a nervous habit, ugly; but to her, it's calming – the feeling of the soft skin tearing, the numb pain before the blood reddens the skin – bite, bite down to the flesh. Pain, numbing pain. She can't decide what to wear. She's staring at the clothes, how sadly they hang, how dull they look – there's nothing in there. She can't bring herself to drop her towel to the floor and put something on; no, because looking at every single item, all she sees is him – ripping it off. This is wrong – the way she's losing her mind, the way he's occupying it; the way he's invading her dreams. It's unfamiliar, it's foreign – the feeling of being so lost in someone else, someone she barely knows. It's unsettling, and rattling; terrifying. Finally she puts on a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt – she's trying to disappear, hide from her thoughts; hide from him.

She walks in, scanning the room. She doesn't see him; a sigh of relief, or is it?

"Why are we meeting here?" She's frustrated. She hates feeling this way, she hates herself for feeling this way.

"Well, good morning to you too." Abby is too cheerful, too chipper for her to handle. "We need to plan the party?"

"What party?" Abby looks mortified at the question, so she starts searching her mind, going over their conversations, dusty stacks of 2am ramblings; going over dates in her head. Finally, it clicks, "Oh, sorry. Your 21st. Yes, let's talk about the party." Her enthusiasm almost sounds genuine, and it almost is. She welcomes it – the planning, the guest-list and the drinks, the music and who's DJ-ing; it's fascinating in its triviality; it's distracting, it's what she needs.

"Coffee?"

And freeze. It's his voice. The soft baritone that's been occupying her dreams. The chills; running down her spine, making it shoot up. She turns around instinctively, looks up instinctively, into those eyes – it's all instinct, involuntary; she can't fight it. He doesn't blink. He just smiles as he reaches for her cup, nodding towards it politely.

"Yes, please." Her voice sounds weak; like it got lost somewhere on it's way out of her throat, like it dissolved. She holds up the cup, her eyes never leaving his and their hands meet clumsily; trying to avoid contact, trying to only touch the cool porcelain, but failing miserably. She feels his fingers, brushing over hers, quickly – electricity. She moves her hand away, and so does he. The cup drops to the floor, breaking into a thousand pieces, shattering; the coffee spilling. It's loud, it breaks them out; instantly, they're both on their knees – trying to gather the broken chunks, the sharp shards. Rushing, two at a time, they're putting them up on the table; almost done; until – they reach for the last one, the same one. Her hand falls on top of his; startling him, he wasn't looking, no he's been avoiding her eyes the whole time; he presses harder into the porcelain, the sharpness digging into his skin; leaving a long cut in his palm. He flinches, and she looks down worried, her eyes finally leaving his face. She opens his hand slowly, and takes the piece away, opening his palm, until it's resting on hers – flat; hand on hand.

"I got the mop." Abby says breathlessly, then looks from one to the other, questioning, feeling like she's interrupted something. The pair stands up awkwardly – eyes locked, his palm still resting on top of hers. "What happened?" They finally shift their eyes, focusing instead on the redhead.

"Oh, I just, I cut my hand on one of the pieces. It's fine."

"You should get it checked out." Her voice, this time, it sounds soft, but not weak – it's like he remembers. She realizes he's staring at her lips, and so does he. He takes a step back, instantly, stumbling slightly; and she lets go of his hand, dropping hers abruptly.

"You should." Abby ads, trying to break the charged silence. "We can clean this up."

He murmurs, "thanks" before walking away, not turning back. Abby, with her signature lack of tact, asks, rather loudly, well before he's out of ear-shot, "What was that about?"

"What?" She'll play dumb, pretend nothing happened; nothing worth talking about.

"_That_. I mean first of all, the coffee here – it's self-service. Secondly, I felt like I was interrupting eye-sex; I mean the way you were holding his hand, and the way he was staring at your lips – you could have as well done it, right here."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't even know the guy."

"Yeah right," she says with a chuckle-turned-grunt, "everyone knows him, he's Fitzgerand Grant – the California Governor's son. He was all over the news, last year – during the scandal." She looks at Liv, who still looks dumbfounded and then realizes, "Sorry, it was when… "

And she finally picks up, "Oh, right. Yeah. No. I, mean, that's fine." Silence; the type that makes their eyes dart across the room, bouncing nervously off the walls, avoiding.

Finally, "I'll mop this up, and you can throw the remains of that cup away? No salvaging that."

"Sure." She sounds absent-minded, melancholic; she sounds sad.

"Liv, I'm sorry." She looks up, giving her a weak smile. "That I mentioned it. I hate reminding you."

"It's OK. It's not like I ever really forget." And with that she walks away to get a tray for all the broken pieces, because that's what you do with broken things – you throw them away, you discard them. She looks at her hand, a drop of his blood, dried on her palm. She shakes her head – it's all flooding back; the blood, all the blood, the blood on her hands. She can never forget, it's always there; the ever-tightening noose around her neck. Except, except with him; there's something about him that takes the pain away, distracts her from it, even momentarily – there's something about him that makes her feel, less broken, less damaged; that makes her feel like maybe, she could be fixed.

* * *

Her tongue is gliding past his lips, seeking, exploring. Her fingers wonder through his hair, massaging his scalp gently. He hoists her up and she moans in his mouth; her arms falling to his shoulders, her fingertips caressing his cheek. She starts peppering kisses along his jawline, moving down to his neck. The way she kiss him – feather-light, and then so deep, so passionate – it's perfect. But the kisses, suddenly they feel so wrong – they're sloppy, they're too wet; each ending with a loud _pop_. They're wrong. Something's wrong. He can feel hands traveling down his body, but they feel foreign, then suddenly, "Mellie," his arms shoot down to pull her up, before he can even open his eyes, "what are you doing?"

She doesn't loose a beat, her smile still plastered on her face, "What do you think?"

"I think I don't remember you being here last night, because we had a fight." He spits it out, his voice angrier than he'd want.

"I know. I'm sorry about that. I mean I get it. You don't want a big wedding."

He sits up, finally dropping her hands in her lap, as he scoots farther to the edge of the bed. "Clearly you don't understand. It's not about the size of the wedding. I do not want to get married. That's why I haven't proposed. So you, all of you, need to get that into your heads – it's not about the size, just like it wasn't about the location, and I won't care about the gown, or the stupid flowers. It's not about the wedding, because, we-are-not-getting-married."

Her demeanor changes instantly. To a stranger it's imperceptible, completely unnoticeable, but not to him – he knows what's coming.

"Fitz, honey," She inhales, deeply, and then widens her smile as she softens her eyes, but no, they're still ice, "we are getting married. If you need to believe otherwise, for a little while, that's fine. But you know, as do I, that your father, and mine, have too much riding on us, on this. So unless you want to be cut-off, you will propose."

"Mellie," He sighs, frustrated, "I don't care if they cut me off, anymore."

She laughs, it's cruel and cold, hostile. "So what, you got your little job, as a cafeteria boy, and now you're independent. Fitzgerald; if they cut you off, you won't be able to afford law school; you will have to drop out, and frankly, without your name and the capital it brings, you are nothing. So, I suggest, you get over your little bohemian-life-crises, and become a man. Do what needs to be done, so that one day you can become the president."

He gets up, not looking at her, and grabs his towel. "I need to shower. I'd like it if you weren't here when I come back."

"Fine. I have a class anyway." She walks over to him, and kisses his cheek – it's not tender, or loving – it's branding him. "What happened to your hand?"

"I cut it. It's nothing." She can tell he's lying, but she can't tell what about. There's something different about him, a different glimmer in his eyes – defiance. He lets the cool water run down his neck, down his back – drops falling from his hair and rolling down his face; tears he cannot cry, no that would be weak; tears rolling down his cheeks – are they real?

He hates himself, for not having more strength. To leave Mellie, to walk away. To leave his family and their dreams – to listen to his gut; experience the world as just him, with _her_. He wishes he could, but he's afraid; afraid to for the first time in his life face consequences, to for the firs time in his life stand on his two feet.

/

"Sorry I'm late." He manages to get it out between short breaths, and his friend just grins at him in amusement.

"Don't worry about it. Thanks for agreeing to do this."

"And what exactly am I meant to be doing?"

"You're demonstrating the debate. It's just a show thing, for first-years; to see if it's something they'd be interested in doing. Your opponent, she's really good; I mean, actually she's great. She took a break, last year, she dropped out suddenly, but this year – she's back; and I mean really back. So you know, if, actually when you lose, don't feel bad." He pats his shoulder encouragingly, or maybe it was just expressing early condolences?

"Where is she?"

"Sorry I-" She lifts her eyes from her notes; as the door swings closed, and she stops in her tracks – her mind: blank.

"Fitz, this is Olivia. Olivia, Fitz." Stephen points his hand between them, as they stand there, looking at each other dumbfounded. "Wow, you guys are taking this way to seriously. It's just a debate, you can shake hands." They just nod their heads in acknowledgment, but neither extends their hand. "Right. OK. Well, in that case. You can get started, and I'll get going. Liv, can you please just explain everything to him?" And he leaves them standing there, the silence, uncomfortable, making them fidget.

He breaks it; he can't stand it, "I know what I'm doing. Steven gave me the topic yesterday. The sooner we start the quicker we'll be done." His voice is cold, distant, taking her by surprise. He doesn't give her a chance to react; he just walks off towards the stage. It starts off fine – they're both cordial, professional; their opening statements are clear and concise; their arguments valid and well-structured; both secretly impressed. But once they get to the rebuttal and response the pleasantries dissipate – he's hostile and pushy, emotional, no longer professional; she's annoyed and gives as good as she gets – hitting back as he rips her to shreds. Their voices lose their cool, their eyes on fire – shooting angry glances at each other. The moderator sounds the bell, but they don't hear; no they just keep at it; until finally she shouts at them to, "Wrap it up and get off the damn stage." They look at each other, anger mixed with embarrassment, rushing to get out of there.

They step into the hallway, and he picks up his pace, trying to get away. But she's too angry to think straight; she grabs his hand and pulls him back. "What the hell was that?" Her voice is high, loud, too loud for inside, so he grabs her elbow and drags her into a nearby supply closet.

"What was what?" He retorts, his voice pure venom.

"The hostility; why are you mad at me?" There's hurt in her voice, a tone that just makes him hate himself even more.

"I'm not. It was just a debate."

"Oh, don't give me that crap." Her eyes narrow, finally alight. "That was not professional. That was personal. You kissed me in that club and I told you to stay away and now you're offended. And being the bratty rich kid, you're not used to not getting everything." She regrets it. As soon as she says it, she regrets it; she sees the way he flinches as the words hit him.

"You kissed me too! And it was the most amazing kiss I've ever had. But then you walk away and tell me to forget. So, I'm sorry, what exactly did you expect?"

"You have a girlfriend!" She shouts at him, both of them glaring.

"Right. So, what were you expecting? This is me doing the right thing!" He says the last part quietly, the atmosphere shifting. They're no longer glaring at each other, no their eyes shift to their lips; neither blinking. He steps towards her and she takes a step back, maintaining the distance. Hurt flashes across his face, but then she's in front of him, kissing him, as he pulls her in. It's angry – the kiss. Their tongues are dueling; their hands feverishly grabbing onto flesh, her nails digging into his back, as he bites her neck. He pushes her against the shelves, a bottle of cleaning liquid falling loudly – but they barely notice; their senses heightened, but only for each other. They finally pull apart, breathing in, trying to compensate for the lack of oxygen.

"We can't keep doing this." She says weakly, as he drops his head to rest in the crook of her neck.

"I know." There's a sadness in his voice. "But, we can't seem to stay away either."

"Nope." She says with a small chuckle.

"Maybe," And he lifts his head to look at her, "Maybe, we could be friends?"

She should say no. It has to be a no. She has plenty of friends, and they don't drive her insane; they don't invade her dreams and make it impossible for her to sleep; they don't have crazy mood-swings and they don't look at her possessively. They can't be friends; they're not friendly – this, this isn't friendly. Friends; it's insane. She has to say no, break this, whatever it is, off; but instead, "OK."

His eyes widen in surprise. They can't be friends. And he doesn't want to be friends with her. There's nothing friendly about the way he wants to hold her, and the way he touches her cheek; nothing friendly about the way he can't seem to stop looking at her lips. Yet, her agreeing, makes him so incredibly happy – it lets him breathe in, fully; freely. "OK, then." And he steps away, giving her "friendly" space. He hates the distance and instantly wants to reach out, but he stops himself and smiles instead. Her knees go weak at his smile, but instead of reaching for his neck and pulling him in for another kiss, she just smiles back.

They straighten out their clothes and step out into the hall. "So what do friends do?" He asks with a smirk.

"Well, we could watch a movie?"

"Alone?"

"Right, a bad idea. Cinema?"

"Dark?"

"Right." They both laugh, their knuckles brushing against each other, as they walk closer together – pulling each other in, like gravity. "Coffee?"

"Isn't the café closed on today?"

"I'm running out of ideas here." She says, half-complaining, but then stops and looks at him, "Wait, running. I'm going for a run in a bit. We could do that?"

"OK." He smiles as they step out in the afternoon sun. Suddenly everything looks brighter, the yellow leaves dancing in the soft breeze; the grass making a crunching sound under their feet – he can feel life now, where before there was just nothingness. Just being around her has that impact; to him – she is magical.

* * *

They meet again at sunset, under a big tree near the café. He's waiting for her, playing with his hands nervously; a calm washing over him as she arrives, smiling.

"Hi." It's so simple, so friendly. But when she says it to him, then, then it has a different meaning – it's a sign that she's letting him in; she's trusting him.

"Hi." A sign that this, this is something.

And so, so they begin.

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**Thank you so, so much for your support for this story, it was truly overwhelming. I'm determined to make you forget about how the story ends, so it's quite a task ahead. Next chapter: them getting to know each other, in all their friendliness :)**


	3. Friendly

He's sitting under an elm tree, on a soft bed of gold leaves, reading. He hears her voice before he sees her – a kind reminder that she's coming, a kind reminder giving him time to look up, to see her come out into the sunlight. Her smile is wide; she laughs throwing her head back and closing her eyes.

He loves her smile. He loves the way she laughs, loudly, but not obnoxiously; the way her lips form a grin, exposing her white teeth. He loves the way she scrunches her nose when she shuts her eyes; they way she brings her hand to her face, to calm herself down. Sometimes, sometimes she looks so sad, and he wants to ask; he wants to know what happened so that he could take the pain away; so that he could make it better. But he never does, afraid, that it would only further shatter her, further expose her brokenness. So, moments like this, moments of bliss, moments in which she's happy – they're everything. He could just sit there and watch her laugh; for a lifetime. He could just look at her, and that, that would be enough.

He breaks out of his daze once he realizes they're walking away. "Liv, Abby, wait!" He grabs his things, and the two cups of coffee and runs towards them, grinning unconsciously. "Got you coffee." He takes a cup out of the cardboard container and hands it to Liv; his hand lingering on hers for a moment, his thumb brushing softly against her knuckles.

"Is that one mine?" Abby chimes. He nods his head and hands her the cup; his eyes never leaving Liv's. The redhead takes a sip, utters a "thanks" and "I have to go", before murmuring "be, anywhere but here" under her breath. They just nod their heads, barely noticing her absence.

"Thanks for the coffee." She says cheerfully, as she finally breaks the gaze and starts walking towards her dorm. He comes with her. It's become a bit of a tradition since their classes have started. He meets her most days, coffee in hand and they walk back together. It's all about the distance. The distance between their arms, between their hands – their knuckles can brush against each other occasionally, but not their shoulders; the backs of their hands can touch, but their fingers can't interlace; they can stare at each other's lips, but they can't kiss. It's fine when they run; there's no time to think; but walking, walking is different. They start off three feet apart, but by the time they reach her door, they are mere inches apart – every, single, time. They stare at their feet, making sure they're keeping the distance, but all they see are their steps, completely in sync; smiling at each other as they notice.

He needs to touch her again; to feel the softness of her skin under his fingertips. "I got you something." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a clumsily wrapped package.

She tries to unwrap it, without tearing the paper, but once she realizes how much tape he used, she just gives into her curiosity and rips it. Underneath, a copy of "The Women's History of the World". She stops in her tracks, and turns towards him; wide-eyed. "This is so amazing! How did you know? And how did you get it?"

"I saw it on your list of books to read, and I got it shipped from London."

"Fitz-"

"I wanted to get you something."

"You could have just gotten me another cup of coffee." They both chuckle softly, blushing.

She opens it and there's a handwritten dedication inside – "One day you'll change the world. You've already changed mine. Thank you." He wanted to write "I love you." She stares at it, and then starts blinking furiously; trying to keep the tears from falling. She wants to hug him; to press her body against his and bury her head into his chest; she wants to kiss him, and not like a friend; she wants to reach out and grab his hand, she wants their fingers to be interlaced. Instead she just stares at the page. She whispers a broken "Thanks".

Damn-it-Fitz. He can see she's struggling, he can see she's on the verge of crying. He wants to hug her, wrap his arms around her and pull her in, hold her; he wants to kiss her, not, lips lingering on the cheek, or brushing against the corner of her lips, no, he wants a deep kiss, an infinite kiss; he wants to grab her hand, he wants their fingers to be interlaced. Instead, he just takes a deep breath. She whispers a broken "Thanks" and finally, it all clicks, his whole life, suddenly – clear.

"Liv." She doesn't look at him. She can't. She's terrified. If she looks into his eyes, he will know, he will be able to tell what she's thinking; he will know what she dreams of. "Livvy." Her head shoots up, involuntarily; she never thought she'd hear that again; but somehow, when he says it, it sounds perfect; when he says it she doesn't feel pain.

"I'm breaking up with her." She just stares at him unable to say anything, her mind racing. "I just never realized how wrong, how wrong we are for each other… until now."

She stops, and he walks on for a moment, until she pulls him back, dropping his hand instantly; no, she can't be touching him, she needs clarity. "You can't do that! Your family will cut you off – you won't be able to graduate. Fitz, I'm not worth that."

"You're worth everything." He takes a step towards her and lifts her chin up with his finger, waiting for her to look up. "You, Olivia, are worth everything. And you know why? You showed me what happiness is, you showed me I can be happy; that I'm capable of being happy." And then he adds quietly, "You showed me I'm not worthless."

Her eyes widen in surprise – how could he ever think he's worthless, why can't he see how amazing he is? "You can't ruin your future for me. I'm broken. I'm damaged goods. And despite what you think, I'm not worth it." It takes her every ounce of strength to say that; to turn around and walk away. She says to herself she's doing it for him, for his benefit. She says to herself that she's protecting him from his carelessness, when really, she's protecting herself from her fears. She says to herself this is about him. She says that to herself; she lies to herself.

He lets her walk away. He doesn't know what to say; he doesn't know how to make her see what he sees; he doesn't know how to break her out; how to change her mind.

* * *

He can't remember any of it. He remembers the sound of the key turning in the lock; he remembers her yelling; he remembers her telling him he'll amount to nothing; he remembers feeling empty; he remembers staring at his feet as she threatens him and not feeling fear; he remembers leaving – leaving and feeling so free.

Without realizing that that's where he was headed he's knocking on her door – she's the one person he needs to talk to, the one person he needs to tell; the one person he needs for to understand.

Quiet.

The sound of footsteps approaching. Pausing. He can feel her drawing in a breath; bracing herself. She opens the door, and he can't stand seeing her like that. Her eyes are red, puffy; her hair an adorable mess, but she, she looks so sad. She's wrapped herself in his Navy sweatshirt, it's too big – reaching her knees. He smiles to himself as he thinks of how she ended up with it.

_They went for a run and suddenly it started raining, pouring really. The heavy drops falling quickly, drenching their skin. He remembers her laughing, opening her mouth and trying to catch the drops, chasing them like snowflakes; he remembers her dancing in the rain; her palms turned up, towards the sky. His place was nearer, so they went there to hide, but really just to get some more time, before they had to say goodbye. She insisted she didn't need to change, but she was shivering, her hoodie drenched. She wouldn't take his clothes, no, that would be inappropriate. _

_He's changing and she's standing in the doorway, looking at him. There's a moment when he realizes, a moment before they break the eye contact, before they blush – not because of what had happened, but because of what they wish would; a moment when they just take each other in, forgetting, all that stands in between. She asks for a sweatshirt, to change hers – ignoring his victorious smirk. He pulls it out and puts it on top of the dresser, leaning against it, as she crosses over to where he's standing, stepping in between his legs. She pulls her shirt off, over her head, and he helps her, his hands traveling along her arms, drawing a feather-light line. She tosses it to the floor, and reaches for the other one, brushing against his side. He catches her arm, "One minute." And instantly she understands; she nods her head. They just stand there. He, shirtless; she, in her sports bra, little droplets of water still shimmering on their skin. They just stand there. Inches apart, leaning in as the time ticks by, but never touching. Finally, she reaches for the sweatshirt, still looking at him; her hand, again brushing softly, but this time lingering. She unfolds it, but then he takes it from her hands and pulls it down over her head. He smoothes it out; running his hands down her body, resting them loosely on her hips. Neither breathes; for a moment of eternity._

"What are you doing here?" Her voice breaks him out of the memory.

"I did it for me." He says it with a triumphant smile. A calm washing over his face; a calm that comes with closure, with recognition that he has made the right choice; an unfamiliar calm that lets in a strange feeling of no longer falling, of no longer fearing. He feels free. Finally free.

She just looks at him, a tear rolling down her cheek.

"Livvy?"

And with that she's kissing him. Nothing about it friendly.

* * *

**Your support and interest in this story has been amazing! Thank you so much! I'll try to come up with an update schedule, because right now I have three versions of Liv and Fitz running around my head, barbecuing together. Next chapter: the fallout from this. And again, thank you so much for liking and reviewing this :)**


	4. Bittersweet

**A fair warning: this chapter is pretty upsetting. I changed my mind, so the fallout will be in the next one, and this one is about Olivia. Basically, her past. This is one of the reasons I wanted to write the prequel, because I feel like this explains a lot of her choices in Another Chance, especially not asking Fitz to stay, and how protective she is of Zoey. So this has been in my mind for a while, but it was still really difficult to write it down. And, again, thank you for all of your support - it means the world to me.**

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Her words are ringing in her ears, "I'm broken. I'm damaged goods." She's never said it. She'd felt it, she'd thought it, but she'd never said it. There's a realization that follows admissions like that, an emptiness that comes from saying things we bury deep, from assigning words to feelings. There's a quiet resignation; recognition of an ending; giving in to the named feelings, instead of fighting them; no, now there's no need – they're out in the open; she can finally let herself be broken. She tries to pinpoint the moment; the moment when she realized she was broken. It wasn't the blood, all that blood; no, she was already gone then; it wasn't the first time, either, even then she was gone. She can't remember a time when she wasn't trying to escape, to be something more, somebody else. Tears are streaming down her face, and she doesn't know why. She doesn't understand that she's grieving the loss of herself, and not the loss of Him. Not anymore. She looks down at her feet, as they speed up on the concrete; along the darkness. She remembers flying, flying and seeing the sky beneath her feet; the light.

_"Livvy." He says with a wide smile, the same one she has; but his, his was rare. He takes the sides of the swing and pushes her forward, pushes her up, towards the sky. The little girl laughs, her hands gripping the rope tight. _

_"Higher." She demands, turning her head to look at him, batting her eyelashes. "Higher, daddy." He pushes again; and she swings her feet, trying to gain speed. She feels she's so close; only one more and she'll defy gravity; she'll stay up in the air, floating. "Higher." He doesn't push again. No, instead, he wraps his arms around her from the back, and places her on his shoulders._

_"Is that high enough?" She just laughs wrapping her hands around his neck and laying a soft kiss on his head. "You're so silly, daddy."_

She doesn't have a lot of childhood memories with him; at least not memories like this; memories she likes to keep. Looking back, re-living it; even the happy – it's always bittersweet. She pulls out a feedback sheet from her backpack, as she collapses onto the bed – the perfect grade. She doesn't smile in satisfaction; no pat on the back – she tosses it aside, unaware that things could be any other way.

_She comes home from school, her head hanging low; her shoulders slouched. She sees her feet touching the doorway, and she stares at them for a moment, she's stalling. She got her first B that day. It was a difficult test and B was the highest grade, but that doesn't matter, not to her anyway. She's eight, and already she feels like she's not good enough, like somehow she's failing. She feels like maybe if she played more sports, or played them better, if she scored a goal, he would smile – he would stand in the bleachers and wave at her, smiling. Maybe is she had more friends, or won more debates it would make a difference; maybe it would give him more good days. Maybe. It's her maybe-dream; because lately; there were too many days he spent alone, away, staring into the space. She'd watch him sometimes and wonder what he thought about; if he fantasized about a different life. She never understood he fantasized about a different mind, one that would let him feel the happiness, the happiness he knew was there. She never understood it was him, and not them; that there was nothing that would have made a difference. _

_Her little hand turns the handle. She tiptoes across the floor and up the stairs, trying to get to her room; to hide in her B-induced-shame. She sits at her desk and practices writing. Hours later she still sees the imperfections, all she sees are flaws, the failures._

_"Olivia." Her mom yells from the kitchen; her voice strained, exhausted. "Can you please get your father, he's taking a nap. Dinner's ready."_

_"Sure, mom." She sits for another moment though. Just looking at the scattered pages of neat writing. She picks up the last one she did; lines and lines of "I love you daddy." She'll give it to him and then, maybe, he won't care about the B; maybe he'll see she can do better than that; maybe he'll see that she's willing to work hard to be good enough._

_Her parents' bedroom is dark; the sun has long set letting in the long winter night. She finds her way to his side of the bed, and softly calls out his name. She doesn't want to wake him; he looks happy, or at least the closest thing to happy she's ever seen. He doesn't move, and she calls out again; a little louder, but still soft – so much love in the girl's voice. He still doesn't stir, he just sleeps; peaceful. She touches his cheek, softly; warm skin on warm skin. Nothing. She nudges him lightly, but he's still sleeping. Still happy. She tries to shake him; her little hands wrapping tightly around his arms, but as soon as she stills; he stills too. _

_"Mom, I can't wake him up." She says, with a subtle whine. Her mom drops a pan; loudness of metal crashing against the tile, rings in her mind. The only thing that filters through is her mom's voice, high-pitched and panicked, yelling as she runs up the stairs, "Call 911, Olivia!" And she does. _

_She remembers the lights, colors flashing before her eyes, and the sound of sirens as they sped away. She remembers the hospital; the way her mom just sat there quietly, waiting, stroking her hair absentmindedly. She remembers the moment he opened his eyes, how they were filled with regret, or maybe it was disappointment? Her mom brought the sheet with neat lines of "I love you's" and he smiled; his hand shaking as he held up the paper; a silent tear rolling down his cheek. _

_She never got another B._

She shivers, suddenly cold – frozen in her thoughts. She reaches for her sweater, but then changes her mind; reaching instead for the sweatshirt that she neatly folds every morning; intending to return it. But, come evening she puts it on, she snuggles in it – it's the only thing that she can sleep in. She pulls it over her head and closes her eyes. If she focuses hard enough; she can almost pretend that the heavy textile is his hands traveling down her body; that the rim is his arms resting loosely on her hips. She reaches for the book on her nightstand; she needs to finish it before she can start another one, the one from him. She pulls out the bookmark, and for the first time in a while, really looks at it. For the first time in a while she doesn't avoid the smiling faces, she lets them in, lets the memory in.

_She's eating her breakfast and flipping through the Harvard prospectus she got in the envelope with her early admission acceptance. _

_"I thought we could go to the fair today?" She looks up surprised; startled almost by the proposal. "To celebrate." He smiles, amused by her face. "You did so great."_

_She just stares at him for a moment, chewing, but not tasting anything. She nods her head before she speaks, "You sure you're up for it?"_

_"Nothing I'd rather do today, Livvy." He scoots over to where she's sitting and looks at the prospectus, eyes darting between the polished pages and the happiness on her face. "I stayed here." He points to a photo of an impressive-looking building, "And here, this is where your mom and I had our first kiss." His finger points to a tall elm tree near the library. _

_"How classy." She says with a chuckle, teasing. She loves days like this, but they're few and far between. And the happiness, the mood, it always bursts so suddenly. _

_It's freezing outside, but she doesn't mind. Their breaths turn into steam as soon as they leave their lips, a trail of visible reminders that they're alive, breathing. It's crowded, children running around everywhere, but she doesn't mind. It's loud; they have to yell, but it's fine. It's perfect. Everything is perfect, because he's there, holding her hand and carrying a massive teddy bear. He's there, and there are brief moments, moments when the sadness seems almost completely gone; when his eyes flicker with the palest light. And those moments, fleeting as they are, are enough. _

_The photo booth is his idea. He gets himself a Santa beard; and he buys her antlers and a flashing red nose. The first flash goes off before they're ready – their eyes are half-closed, their mouths open; the second one they have polite smiles; the third one her eyes are closed, mouth open again, she's laughing – her head falling back; he's just looking at her in awe. The last one, the last one they're hugging; or he's hugging her really. His eyes are closed, his lips stretched in an unmistakable smile. There's a tear glistering on his cheek. He is happy; in that moment he is as happy as he could ever be. _

She shoves the bookmark between the back cover and the last page, wiping her lone tear away. It got stuck, in the corner of her smile. Bittersweet. Bittersweet memories. She gets up. She's done. She's done crying. She's done feeling all of this.

She splashes cold water on her face; once, twice, three times – she keeps repeating the motion until her bones hurt from the cold. She puts her palms on the sides of the sink, holding herself up; looking into a pair of sad, brown eyes. The sadness in them not apparent; no, it's in the traces of gold that take the light in, but don't reflect it; it's her eyelids, the way they're never open completely, they're always hovering, ready to shut, to stop the tears from rolling out. She's seen those eyes look at her before; across the kitchen table, or when he kissed her goodnight; she saw them become empty, before they fell shut.

_She was going to wait until the weekend, but she has no classes today. She promises Abby she'll bring some of her mom's lasagna back; she throws too many books into her bag, and heads out. She doesn't even know why she's going home. It's her gut. Her gut has been telling her something's off. Her mom sounded fine, she said he was fine too, but she could tell that wasn't the whole truth. It's an unplanned trip and she felt guilty leaving, despite all her work being finished; but now, driving down I-90, music blasting; she's actually glad. They can play cards, they do that every time, and sometimes winning even brings him a smile; and they can have a family meal, because at home, she's learned to think of silence as soothing, as a blessing. _

_She pulls into the driveway. His car is there, so she calls out as she comes inside. No reply. He must be taking a nap, she decides. She heads up, to drop off her stuff. Her foot on the top step, she hears a loud noise in the bathroom; the sound of falling; clinking against the tiles and a loud thump. She knocks gingerly, then calls out, terrified, "Dad?"_

_"Livvy, I'm fine." But she knows, instantly, that something is off. His voice, the voice that always sounded damaged, broken even; now sounds weak, light, almost relieved. She stands there for a moment and then she pushes the door in. _

_Blood. So much blood. The red travelling between the tiles; travelling away from him. She drops to her knees, grabbing his wrists, pressing in. But he's still bleeding; the crimson liquid leaving his body quickly, too quickly. She takes off her scarf and wraps it around one arm, above the cut; wrapping the other one in her shirt. She turns to get up, to call 911, but he grabs her hand, his grip weak._

_"Livvy, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't see this." His words are breathy, each drawn out, each one sounds like it might be his last. _

_"It's OK dad." She doesn't recognize her voice._

_"I'm sorry Livvy." Tears stream down his cheeks. She bends down on her knees again and kisses him._

_"I'll get help." And with that she gets up and leaves. _

_The rest, the rest is all a blur. A blur of people and sounds, questions and answers. They pronounce him dead on arrival; he's lost too much blood. She doesn't cry and neither does her mom. They just sit in the waiting room, no longer waiting for him; instead waiting for it to sink in. She just stares at her hands, blood on them. Maybe if she hadn't stopped for coffee on her way; or if she didn't hesitate to open the door; maybe if she didn't come back, if she hadn't kissed him then; maybe he'd still be breathing. They let them see him; he looks at peace, almost serene; he looks free. _

_She doesn't remember when, or how they get home. All she remembers is her bloody palm-print on the phone. She remembers her mom scrubbing the bathroom floor furiously. She remembers kneeling down to help; her jeans leaving a red trail. She remembers the horror she felt; she remembers ripping her clothes off; shaking uncontrollably – crying. She remembers her mom showering her; the water running red. She remembers the awful guilt that followed her to bed._

Her gaze falls to the letters on her chest, and a weak smile reaches her eyes as she looks up. They look different now. Less broken, less sad – a soft twinkle in the gold specks. And in that moment, finally, it all clicks, her whole life, suddenly – clear. She's punishing herself. She still blames herself for his death. More importantly she blames herself for his illness. She blames the little girl for wanting to get away, for not getting that A; she blames herself for failing to wake him up, for failing to cheer him up; for failing to be enough. She blames herself for his sadness; she attributes it to _her_ brokenness. Maybe if she were perfect; maybe.

But Fitz, he told her she was everything. He told her and she didn't hear him. She didn't hear she makes him happy; she didn't hear that she helped him. She didn't hear any of it; she couldn't process it – all she could think was how much she'll damage him.

She runs her fingers across the embroidery, smiling as her fingertips trail the stitching. She makes him happy. She says it out loud. There's a realization that follows admissions like that, a lightness that comes from saying things we bury deep, from assigning words to feelings. There's a quiet resignation; recognition of an ending; giving in to the named feelings, instead of fighting them; no, now there's no need – they're out in the open; she can finally let herself heal.

She heads to her room, her mind racing. She wants him. She wants to be happy. And he, he makes her so happy. She wants him. She wants him to leave Mellie. But she wants him to do it for him. Her father, he lived for her. She understands that now. She's not the reason he died; she's the reason he held on for so long. He lived for her; but really, she was living for him; she was _being_ for him. And that, that nearly broke her; it damaged her, maybe for good. She closes their apartment door, leaving all the noise of the hallway, all the messiness outside, letting the quiet in; letting it clear her mind.

A knock. She knows it's him, instantly. She can just tell. There's something about the rhythm of his steps, something about energy, it changes when he's near. She hesitates. For a moment she pauses. She wants him, but it has to be his choice, she has to be what he wants.

She opens the door and he looks lost in thought. She needs to break him out, she needs to know; she can't do this back and forth anymore. She wants him, but she also wants to heal, to mend the broken pieces.

"What are you doing here?"

"I did it for me." A smile, bright, triumphant, spreads across his face. There's something in his eyes, something aside from happiness – he looks relieved, he looks free.

A tear rolls down her cheek; her eyelids no longer hovering, ready to shut; her eyes finally completely alight.

A flash of panic across his face, "Livvy?" And that's it. The way he says her name. The way it rolls of his tongue, without a hint of brokenness, without a hint of sadness; the way he does it gives her some of her long-lost innocence back. The way he says her name makes her believe in happiness, it makes her believe that some loves can overcome everything; it makes her believe that her life is worth living. She steps towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, propping herself up on her toes and she kisses him. Nothing about it friendly.

She pulls him inside, peeling his jacket off, dropping it to the floor. Abby chimes, "About time!" from her doorway, before disappearing inside, and they just laugh; their kiss becoming a wide smile. They stumble into her room and she lies down on her bed, pulling him down with her. Their kisses deep, yet tender; their hands slowly exploring. This, this isn't rushed – it's not a dirty, little, secret – they have time. All this time. Time for love. He pulls her shirt over her head, and then peppers light kisses down her body, as she arches her back. He stops just below her waist. She lifts her head, and opens her eyes, looking at him, questioning.

"We don't have to, not if you're not ready."

"I want to. I want you." She reaches down and brings his lips to hers, kissing him deeply, as her hands travel down his body, unbuckling his belt.

They lie in her single bed; a bundle of sweaty, lifeless limbs. She's lying on top of him, her head on his chest – his heart beating slowly; his breathing deep – he's asleep. She's falling asleep too. And for the first time since that night, she doesn't feel guilt.

One day she'll tell him. About the swing; the flying; the sky beneath her feet. One day she'll tell him. About the bad times and the good ones. And he'll understand. He'll understand how her dad could smile and cry at the same time; how he could love her and yet scar her. He'll understand, and with him, so will she. She will tell him. Because with him, happy is no longer bittersweet.


	5. The Morning After

**This is just a short chapter, with some cuteness and hotness, to make up for the fact that I haven't updated in a while, and will be off for the next week. So I really hope you'll enjoy it! And thanks so much for your amazing interest in this story and the lovely reviews :)**

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She wakes up in his arms and for a moment she's not sure if it was all a dream. She draws her finger across her swollen lips and traces the pale bruises on her hips. She smells like him. The sheets, her skin; the air – it all smells like him; an intoxicating mix of sex and love and sweat. Intoxicating. She can feel the weight of his arm on her waist, his hair tickling her shoulder, the warm skin of his cheek just above her breast. It's not a dream, she could never dream this perfectly.

She runs her fingers though his hair and he stirs slightly, his lips stretching into a smile before he even opens his eyes. He looks up, "Hi."

His smile. It's infectious. The way his lips curl upwards, but just slightly, just enough to tickle his eyes. The way faint dimples appear in his cheeks; the way his tongue licks the rim of his lips. The way he is so utterly unafraid to show that he is happy. That, just the way he smiles in the morning sun, makes her smile. "Hi."

He moves his arm up; his hand trailing a line along her skin; his touch setting it alight. He drags his thumb gently over the marks on her neck, before pulling her head down, as he lifts his up, meeting in between, meeting in a kiss. No, she can't dream this perfectly. When they break apart her hands are on his ass, his hand on her breast, his weight pinning her down. "So what do you want to do today?" He asks kissing her neck.

"Stay in bed?" She replies, without thinking about it, it just comes out. They both laugh, their eyes meeting, as if through a haze, locking for a moment.

"OK!" He says, biting gently on her shoulder as he flips them over.

She grazes his chin with her teeth, running her hands through his hair, cradling his head as they fall to the pillow. "We can't. I have a meeting with my project supervisor." She sighs, burying her head in the crook of his neck.

"You could call in sick." He's bargaining.

"I can't. I missed the last one when _someone's_ car broke down and I had to pick _someone_ up." She looks at him pointedly, teasing, dragging out the words with no notion of subtlety. "But we still have some time." She whispers in his ear, a familiar twinkle in her eye as she straddles him.

* * *

She hands him her towel exposing her naked body, all the while eyeing his; both blushing slightly. She grabs a pair of lacey underwear from her drawer, as he grabs his from the floor, keeping the eye contact as they put it on. He hands her her bra and she turns around, asking him to hook it. His fingertips brush against her soft skin, lingering for a moment after he releases the thin material; before traveling down her back, trailing a line down her spine, the sensation giving her warm goose-bumps. He lays a feather-light kiss on her shoulder, his lips barely touching her skin, as she turns her head to the side and breathes him in. "All done." She can't stay in his embrace. She can't _just_ stay. She wants to kiss him until they're breathless; she wants to lie with him under the sheets; she wants to feel all of him, know all of him. She can't _just_ stay. So she steps away, shaking her head slowly, as if trying to get her mind to behave. She picks up his T-shirt and tosses it at him, chuckling, but he walks over and puts it on her, "You said you love The Clash and this one is signed." And he points to the scribble at the bottom of the T-Shirt. She squeals excitedly, before uttering a soft, "Fitz…"

He puts a finger over her lips, "I'm just lending it." She puts his hand down, and props herself up on her toes, kissing him softly; pulling away before their tongues can get lost in a duel. He grabs his sweatshirt from the floor, smirking at her panicked expression, "You don't need this, you have me."

"I lo-," she stops herself before she can say it, blushing, "I like having you around, but if it comes down to choosing, I'm picking the hoodie. The hoodie and I have been through so much, and I know that it will stay with me through anything." She manages to blurt out before breaking into a laugh.

His face suddenly turns serious, "Livvy, I'm not leaving. I'm in this. All in." She doesn't know what to say. She hears him and she wants to believe him; she wants to, but trust, trust takes time. So, instead, she just smiles. He takes it; he understands – trust, it has to be earned; he has to prove he means it, has to prove it's not just empty words. "Go on a date with me?"

"When?" She asks before he can even finish the sentence; eager for the conversation to change.

"Tonight. I'll pick you up at seven. Wear something comfortable." He puts the hoodie on, smirking at her confused expression, "It's a surprise. Relax." She still doesn't look convinced, "Trust me." Still looking displeased, "And you know, don't dress up too much." He jumps into his jeans, grinning, as she watches him – trying to eye-burn him into submission.

"I don't like surprises!"

"You'll like this one." She huffs frowning, as he steps in between her legs; wrapping his arms below her waist. "I'll see you tonight."

He leans his forehead on hers. They gaze at each other for a moment, closing their eyes at the same time, as their lips touch. As his hands move to her ass, she squeezes his arm and steps back, wiggling out of his embrace. "Tonight."


	6. The First Date

She groans in frustration as she drops the last item from her closet on the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor.

She hates surprises. She hates not knowing what is happening; she hates not being able to come up with a plan, not knowing her exit strategy; she hates the unknown, fears it. She hates surprises. But she likes him, a lot. She likes how charming he is; how confident; she likes the way he looks at her, the way his eyes seem to light up when she's around; she likes that he got her a book she wanted and that he has a great taste in music; she likes the way he kisses her, and the way she never wants him to stop. And the sex, god, that was the best sex she's ever had. And because she likes him, she's getting over her aversion to surprises and trying be a good sport about it. Trying.

"What the hell does – _wear something comfortable mean_?" She fires at Abby, who's sprawled out on her bed, flipping through a magazine. She's running late; she's panicking; she's nowhere near ready.

"It means flats, instead of fuck-me heels and a dress that you can actually breathe in." She fires back grinning, her eyes still firmly fixed on the magazine.

"Not helping!" And she throws a t-shirt from the top of the pile at the redhead, crossing her arms, her face forming an adorable pout. "I have nothing to wear!" She exclaims, shaking her head in frustration. "Ughhhh."

This finally gets her friend's attention and she gets up on her knees and moves to the edge of the bed. "Liv, calm down! It's just a date, you'll be fine. Wear the denim shorts; that cute crop top that I stole from you and your white cable-knit cardigan."

She nods her head quietly, contemplating for a moment. Then her face breaks into a wide grin, her arms finally falling to her sides, "I forgot about that top! You said you'd just 'borrow' it, with a promise of returning it!"

"It's charming, the way you hold on to my every word." She jumps off the bed and runs to her room, returning with a strapless white crop top, with colorful sequin stripes. "Here you go." She throws the top on the bed, joining Liv on the floor as they go through the pile of clothes, looking for the cardigan and the shorts.

She puts it on, turning to the mirror, and taking her reflection in. "I don't know Abby." Her voice is drawn out and almost whiney, her lips pursed, "I mean it shows a whole lot of me." She says, as she moves her hands, somewhat theatrically, from her cleavage, to a strip of bare skin above her waist, then pointing her fingers at her bare legs.

Abby rolls her eyes, while rummaging through Liv's jewelry box. "It's a date. Your boobs are meant to be on display. And the way he looks at you, I don't think he's going to complain!"

Liv blushes slightly, biting her lip, as she turns to the mirror again, twisting a strand of her hair around her finger. The redhead hands her a chunky necklace, and puts it on her, after receiving a nod of approval. "What is it about him?" She asks finally, trying to catch Liv's eyes in the mirror.

"What do you mean?" She sounds defensive. She doesn't mean to.

"Just… I've never seen you like this over a guy! I mean, you're freaking out. Usually you're so calm, and cool and collected and put the rest of us to shame, but right now, I mean you're a mess. You, my friend, are gone, head-over-heels, blushing-when-you-think-of-him; jumping-when-the-phone-rings; wearing-his-hoodie, level of gone. And I just want to know why?"

She bows her head, inspecting her white converse for a moment. "I don't know." She says quietly, more to herself than to Abby. "There's just something about him. Like his dad is an asshole, but he still goes home for Christmas every year, so that his mom wouldn't have to be alone with him. And on Tuesdays he organizes bingo nights at the retirement home, and last week instead of canceling on them, he just brought me along. And he's crazy smart, like freakishly intelligent, but not in a snobby way; he's smart enough to make everyone around him feel better about themselves. And he _likes_ discussing the ERA with me for hours, like he actually enjoys it. He doesn't appease me; he argues with me, he challenges me. He doesn't feel threatened by me, and he doesn't try to handle me. He just likes me… for me. With him, I fell like, I feel like I'm enough." She says it all in one breath, finally looking up, blushing.

"Damn. I hoped you'd say I was wrong, and you just think he's hot!"

She laughs, then adds, "Well, there's that as well." Before Abby can inquire about his superpowers in bed, there's a knock on the door; the first one soft, quiet, unsure almost; but the second one louder, confident. She looks at herself in the mirror one more time; inhales deeply; turns on her heel and grins at Abby, before opening the door, smiling.

"Hi."

* * *

He groans in frustration as a little drop of blood rolls down his cheek and breaks up the whiteness of the sink. Damn-it. He rarely cuts himself shaving; almost never; but today, today it was bound to happen. His hands are shaky and his mind is a jumbled mess and now he's sticking a shred of toilet paper to his face. A jumbled mess.

He hates the charade. He hates over-the-top dates. He hates the obnoxious displays of affection; he cringes at them. He hates that. At least he used to. But not anymore, not with her. Her smile, the way it's more than just lips curving, the way it lights up her eyes, the way even her skin seems to smile – he wants to see that smile, he wants to make her happy all the time, because that smile, that smile makes him feel alive. More alive than he's felt his entire life. And the way her eyes widen in surprise, the way they widen in excitement; there's something so innocent, so child-like about it; there's vulnerability that she hides so well otherwise. The way she kisses him; the way their whole bodies get lost in a kiss – he wants to earn her kisses; earn the feather-like touches. And the sex, god that's the best sex he's ever had. So he wants to make a charade; he wants the over-the-top date; he wants the obnoxiousness; he wants to show her how much he cares; he wants her to know and never doubt it. Not for a second, not for a moment.

He is running late. Of course he's running late. He stares at the shirt he laid out on the bed, but then opts for a navy polo instead. He starts putting his jeans on; the ones that she likes; the ones in which she kept checking him out – even as a friend, a friend who clearly appreciated his ass. One leg in, the other one on its way, but the phone rings; he jumps, he trips; he answers it – the voice on the other line a mixture of alcohol and arrogance; iciness that makes him freeze.

"Fitzgerald," it's too loud and too loaded, disapproval seeping from the way letters roll of his tongue; disapproval obvious even on the phone. "What have you done?" Disapproval replaced by anger, almost animosity.

"Actually, dad, I'm just running out. I don't have time-" He tried. He did. He tried.

"Listen to me now!" He takes a breath, and when he speaks; his voice is quiet and deep; without its initial ferocity; a far more ominous tone in it. "I do not care what you are thinking. I do not care what you are feeling. I do not care about the girl that you think you want to be seeing. You will call Mellie, right now, you will apologize and you will make things right. You will propose at Christmas, you will get married in July, at the ranch. You will run for office next year, there will be an opening. You will win. You will make a name for yourself. You will impress the party. You will run for Senate in five years. You will win. You will get re-elected. You will run for president. You have the perfect pedigree, and you will have the perfect record and the perfect family. You will win. You will be the president of the United States. That is what you were born for; it's what you were bred for. I have done everything – the right schools, the right people; the right connections – I made you into something, all you have to do is go along with it; stay pretty and be charming; and I will handle the rest of it. So; call Mellie, make good with her and forget about this girl." He doesn't give him a chance to answer. He hangs up, before he can speak up; before he can speak his mind.

He sits down. Suddenly he feels short; so very short. Suddenly he feels like a child again; a boy, his spirit cut down in size, to allow his father to shine. Suddenly he feels insignificant; an object; undeserving of love, especially her love. He lies on the bed for a moment. He closes his eyes. Shut tight. He thinks of last night. How she tasted; how she felt; how her hands ran through his hair; how her nails dug into his back; how she looked at him as she climaxed; a haze in her eyes, but also something else; something resembling – love?

He pulls his jeans up, and grabs his jacket, making sure he has his keys and his wallet. His heart is pounding as he runs down the stairs, trying to catch up with time; to be less late. He doesn't remember the drive; his mind running wild – filling with insecurity and doubt. He gets to her door and pauses for a moment; his eyes on the floor, inspecting his converse as his fist touches the door. Soft, at first; quiet – insecure; but then he hears her laugh, something so magical about the sound and he knock again – louder this time; confident. Confident that he wants her. He doesn't think he deserves her; no he's too broken, too damaged; but he is confident – he can earn her. If he loves her enough, if he makes her smile, and never makes cry; if he makes her laugh and makes her eyes light up; if he makes her half as happy as she makes him; he can earn her, maybe.

Footsteps on the other side; a click of the lock; a screech of the door; a "Hi."

* * *

He is speechless. For a moment he is speechless. Even a "Hi," too complex a word to utter. Speechless. Her shorts make her legs look even longer; the ripped threads gliding effortlessly across her skin as she moves towards him. Her top hugs her body so perfectly, and he reaches for the peeking skin; pulling her in by her waist, in for a kiss. She breaks it, out of breath, her hands lost in his, now, disheveled hair. "We should get going," she says, smiling against his lips, before turning around and leading him out, her hand slipping into his; a perfect fit.

They get to the car. He opens the door for her, but not before boxing her and leaning down to lay a soft kiss on her lips. But she deepens it instantly; grinding her hips into his. "Livvie…" He breathes out, his voice raspy, "we need to get going. We have quite a ride ahead of us." He whispers into her ear, as his hands slip to her ass; pressing her back into the car.

"Wait? What? Where are we going?" Her hand on his chest, keeping his lips at bay, trying to catch his eyes, "Tell me."

"Livvie, it's a surprise!" And with that his hands are slipping off her ass, opening the car door. He flashes her a satisfied smile as he walks over to his side. He puts on the mixed tape that she made for him; and she just looks up, smiling; brushing her knuckles against his cheek. His hand rests on her knee, but slowly moves up, resting on her thigh; his thumb making small circles on the soft skin.

They talk as the sun comes down; the street lights coming alive, illuminating the deep purple of the sky.

"No, I'm not saying it was a bad paper." He says, frustrated. It's as if she doesn't hear the good things; she just picks up on the constructive criticism, blowing the imperfections out of proportion.

"You said my argument was weak." She says defensively.

"No, I said it could be stronger. I mean if you're going to use the morality argument, you should develop it completely, and drive it home in the end. Making a point about morality, but not arguing it just makes you seem flaky."

"So, I'm flaky now." She says, throwing her hands in the air.

"Liv, it's a great paper. But it could be better. An easy fix. Stop being dramatic!" He says grinning, and she just looks at him, all her perfectionist anxiety suddenly deflating. But then, she's distracted, she realizes where they're going.

"New York. We're going to New York! That's four hours away. That's crazy. What are we-"

"Surprise, Livvie." She exhales sharply, pouting and crossing her arms in protest, trying to fight off a smile.

"Fine." Her face finally breaks into a grin, her hand settling on top of his. "I thought you'd have a problem with my argument, rather than the structure, to be honest." She says, her smile turning mischievous, daring, and he just looks at her, taking her in. He can feel himself falling, deeper and deeper in; he can feel _himself _getting lost in_ them_.

"I did actually." He says, grinning back. And they fire arguments at each other, warp speed, never slowing down, never needing extra time to think – they're in sync. The time passes so quickly; terrifyingly quickly. Before she knows it they're pulling in and parking in front of a big glass building; a building she knows so intimately. She looks at him, questioning.

"You said it was your favorite place on the whole planet." He says smiling, as he pulls the key out of the ignition, reaching for the door. She's just staring out the window, not moving. "You coming?"

"It's closed." She says, confusion evident in her voice; mixed with a hint of panic. Clearly he planned this, she doesn't want it to fall apart; she doesn't want it to be ruined.

He just grins and gets out of the car, opening her door momentarily, giving her a hand, "Come on Livvie."

They go in through the wide doors, into an empty, open space, where there are usually hundreds of people queuing for tickets. She's never seen it like this, so completely still; only the art in the building living. Her eyes are lost in the vastness of space, in the openness; wide in excitement. "How did you-" She turns to him, beaming, but she doesn't finish the sentence; he cuts her off with a kiss.

"The curator is a family friend." He says, smiling, kissing the top of her head; but there is something in the way he says it; a bitterness in the way he hisses 'family'. She eyes him carefully, but decides to drop it, for now; to just enjoy this.

"How long do we have?"

"A whole night!" He says grinning, as she turns around to look at him; to make sure she heard it right.

"A whole night, alone in the MOMA?"

He just nods his head, taking her hand as she leads him up the wide stairs. They stay there for hours, moving between the paintings and installations; trying to read them, but really learning about themselves in the process; about each other – the way see art, the way they feel art; the way they see life and love.

"So, have I earned for you to show me your favorite?"

She freezes for a moment. They looked at pieces she loves, pieces that make her feel things, but she hasn't shown him her favorite, the one that lets her feel fear. It's the one painting that she can't crack; the one she keeps coming back to see; the one she spent hours staring at, after her father's death. "How did you know?"

"That you haven't shown it?" She just nods. He pauses, to think, takes a moment to phrase it, "Well, when someone loves art as much as you do; there's always that one piece that makes them feel things nothing else can. And I've watched your face for the whole night; and there was beauty in our eyes, and happiness, and sadness; you were amazed and impressed, but never lost, never uncomfortable, or afraid. And to love something, for you, it needs to challenge you." She just smiles, holding his hand just a little bit tighter. "So, have I earned it yet?" She nods and leads him down the hallway where she's spent hours and days, a hallway where most of her life's pivotal decisions had been made.

"_Self-portrait with cropped hair_?" He asks; a tone of surprise. "Why?"

"It's just…" She lets go of his hand and takes a step back, closing her eyes and then opening them again. "There's so much hurt in it, and sadness; but then there's so much more than that. He broke her heart and that's why she cut off her hair, and it's always seen as brokenness, but there's healing there as well. The way she sits, legs apart; the way she looks down; the cross-dressing – it's not just sadness; she's taking her power back." Her arm is up, her hand pointing at the painting as she talks about it; her eyes focusing on the details, glowing. He looks at the painting; takes it in. He's seen it a million times, in that very room, on the pages of art books; he's seen it before; but he feels like he's really seeing it now for the very first time. He sees past the damage; past the façade; into the rebellious spirit that couldn't be broken. Then he turns his gaze to the girl next to him, a girl that's letting him in, so completely and in her eyes he sees the same tenacity that he sees in the painting.

"Wow." Is all he can utter. It's almost a whisper. And she looks at him, smiling. She knows, he's not talking about the painting. They sit on the floor for a while, fingers intertwined, just looking into a pair of defiant eyes. "What do you want to do now?"

She leans her head on his shoulder, thinking for a moment. "Did you make a plan?"

"Well, I have a helicopter on stand-by." He says somewhat nonchalantly, smiling as she looks at him, eyes widening.

"Fitz! That's too much. This, this was amazing, but you didn't have to, you didn't need to do this. And the helicopter, it's just… it's too much."

"I just wanted you to have a good time." He says, his smile fading, wistfulness creeping onto his face. Insecurity, maybe?

"I'm with you. We could literally sit in a park and I would have an amazing time. Us driving around in a car, us getting coffee on the way back from the library; seeing you between classes; just sitting here with you – it's the best time, all those things are amazing, because you are amazing. I want us to do something… something that's just your thing. Something simple, something you love doing when you're here."

He wants to kiss her. Kiss her in a way that would make her forget about time and space, forget about the rest of the universe. He wants to kiss her now and never stop; he wants them to be lost, together, in a bubble, forever. But instead, he nods his head, and thinks for a moment. He finally jumps to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Let's go."

They walk downtown as the city lights fade, the soft pink replacing the darkness. They finally get to a small diner, almost unnoticeable between the tall buildings; almost lost in the shadows. It's full. Buzzing. People getting coffee, grabbing breakfast, chatting – getting ready to start their days, to go about their lives. A plump lady waves at them from the counter, smiling widely at him, "Fitz, honey! I haven't seen you since last year. There's a booth in the back. Take a seat and I'll be there in a second." He just nods and waves back, leading the way.

The back is quieter, darker; it's perfect. They sit down, his arm around her, his hand on her thigh.

"This used to be my favorite place when I was at boarding school. Whenever we had a family weekend, I'd come here."

"Your family never came?"

"Even when they did my father would spend the whole time schmoozing. He wouldn't notice if I wasn't there. For him it was always about… my achievements, well he saw it as his achievements, really; but, it was never about me."

"I'm sorry." She says and squeezes his hand, and he just nods appreciatively, smiling weakly. "He sounds like a dick." She doesn't mean to say it. She doesn't. It's crude and disrespectful, and so very unlike her. And as soon as the words are out of her mouth she freaks out; it's too much, she's crossed the line. But, he looks at her, his face breaking into a grin, as he breaks into a laugh. At first it's quiet, but then it gets louder, almost uncontrollable, until she's laughing with him; their bodies shaking; their hands covering their mouths, trying fruitlessly to muffle the sound. He stops suddenly, and she instantly notices the change in the atmosphere, her own laughter quieting, her eyes opening.

"No one's ever called him that." She opens her mouth, ready to apologize, but he doesn't give her a chance. "It's the most accurate description I've ever heard! Thank you." And before she can respond he is kissing her. Kissing her, and she forgets about time and space, forgets about the rest of the universe. He is kissing her and she doesn't want him to stop; she doesn't want it to end; she wants them to be lost, together, in a bubble, forever. He's kissing her and she's kissing him back. He is earning her, and she's earning him too.

* * *

**First off - sorry it took me ages to update properly. I should be updating more regularly for the next couple of weeks. And there we go with Big Gerry. He will be making a re-appearance unfortunately. But, more importantly - the first date. It literally took me days to decide what it should be and then it took me ages to decide on the painting (it's by Frida Kahlo, in case anyone didn't know and was interested). I mean they both clearly have some major issues, but I hope that them falling in love managed to make you smile :)**


	7. Grant Men

**Here's the next one my lovelies. This one is about Fitz' past. I hope you'll like :)**

* * *

He is looking at his feet, as they move effortlessly along the concrete, gliding almost. He walks in a straight line; he always has; ever since that day when he was five; the day when He yelled and She cried. The day his father's face became that rare shade of red; his lips a thin line, a slit; his voice a burning hiss.

_He was five. He doesn't remember much. _

_His suit is too tight, too tailored. It's a suit for photos, not for five-year olds. His mother pulls on the folded black satin, centering it; making sure the bowtie is just perfectly reaching the folds of his collar; making sure it's perfectly aligned. It's too tight and too stiff; he hates it. He reaches his little hand up to his neck, trying to loop the fingers behind the button that grazes his neck every time he takes a breath; but she slaps the hand away. _

_"Don't touch that!" Instantly she bows her head; her one hand on her knees, holding herself; the other one covers her face – her thumb and her index finger pushing into her eyelids. Grants, Grants don't cry and she, she is a Grant. She takes a deep breath, then looks up into the small face. His eyes are filled with understanding, understanding beyond his years, as he lays a soft kiss on her cheek. _

_"It's OK mommy." And his small thumb wipes away the lone tear rolling down her cheek. She's not a Grant, and she knows it. She kisses his forehead running her hand over his gelled hair; his curls cemented into place. _

_"I'm sorry Fitzy." She says quietly, getting up from her knees, extending a shaky hand to him. "Let's go, your father is waiting."_

_His father is in the far corner of the white tent, trying to impress some men; because men, men are meant to be impressed, women, they're just ornaments. And children, they're not children, they're heirs, the bearers of family names. So he sits in the shade, sipping his lemonade, trying not to fidget. Because, Grant men, they don't fidget. _

_His mother occasionally motions to him, between her champagne glasses. Every time, he gets up, walks over to whoever his father is talking to, stands there quietly, until he is noticed. He smiles politely, extends his hand, nodding courteously. He flashes his smile; the one his father loves; the one that is too wide, the one that never reaches his eyes. The ladies in expensive dresses and heels that dig into the soft grass pinch his cheeks and exclaim, "He's so precious Gerry." Because they, the complete strangers with a cloud of perfume around them; their husbands with possessive hands, but wondering eyes; they get to call him Gerry. Big, Big is only reserved for his family. Only they need to think of him as big, bigger than life and bigger than God; more than a mere mortal. Only they have to call him Big, because he, he needs them to be small. _

_The Sun is too bright, it's too hot in the tent, and there is no more shade under the old oak. He's tired and he wants to go home. But he's too scared to ask; he's terrified, because the last time he interrupted his father to ask something, last year on Christmas Eve, he didn't speak to him for two weeks. It was a quiet Christmas, and an even quieter New Year. So instead of asking he just decides to go down to the creek; he can sit under the willow tree and watch the fish; as they swim in and out of his view, so freely. _

_He was five. He doesn't remember much. _

_He remembers a strong pair of hands pulling him up; his feet dangling above the ground. He remembers His face, almost scarlet. He remembers His hand; the burning after He slapped him. He remembers the voice, hissing, "You embarrassed me." He remembers his mother yelling. He remembers fighting back the tears, because of fear. So much fear. He remembers her hugging him shakily, squeezing him until he could no longer breathe; sobbing soft whispers of – sorry. _

_He was five. He doesn't remember much. But he remembers thinking he should have stayed; he should have listened; He told him to stay there. He knows, from now on he will always do as he is told; not because of the burning of the skin after the firm hand meets the soft cheek; no, but because of the burning of the skin under his mother's tears. _

_His father drags him back. An icy smile plastered on his face. He introduces him to a pretty girl, with a bow in her hair; a girl in a pastel, poofy dress. A girl with a smile as wide and as empty as his. Mellie. Her father, the leader of the Republican Party, smiles politely and then dismisses them; heirs. Before him, Gerry, suddenly doesn't seem Big; he's just Gerry, forever greedy, forever unhappy. _

"Mr. Grant, come on in," the frail looking woman tells him.

"Fitz, please." He extends his hand and she shakes it softly; her grip weak.

"Alright, then, Fitz." She says as she picks up an open folder from her desk, "I had a look at your file; so tell me, what can I help you with?"

"I…" He pauses. He's never done this. He's never discussed money in public. He's a Grant, and Grants; they don't discuss money; _especially_ not in public. It's there, it's always been there; omnipresent in the every conversation they've ever had, together with power and influence; it was always there, in the air, unsaid. But he's never actually talked about it. He doesn't know how to talk about money. But now he has to, because he's going off the trodden path; he's cutting himself off from being a Grant. "I… My fees. I was just… I guess I was wondering, if-there's-a-way-to-pay-them-in-installments?" The last bit comes out in one breath; incomprehensible and barely audible.

She chuckles, a friendly smile lingering, "I didn't quite catch that Fitz."

"Is there a way to pay the tuition fees in installments? Like a loan-thing?" He says, fidgeting.

She looks at him over her thick glasses, tilting her head sideways. "Are you asking for yourself?"

He wants to retort – of course, in a snarky voice; but he can't, not when he needs her help. So he just swallows the attitude and nods his head.

"But, I don't quite understand." She says, flipping though the file once again; pausing at a page; her eyes narrowing. "It says here your fees have been paid in advance."

Shock followed by relief. Relief flooding over him. Relief. But then, there's that nagging feeling; the burning curiosity. He tries to control his voice, trying to sound disinterested and detached, "Oh, right. Well in that case, I guess, there's nothing else." He gets up. He's not going to ask. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice." He shakes her hand again, and turns to leave; pausing at the door. The damn curiosity. "I was just wondering," and he looks at her questioning, as she nods him, encouraging; "What's the payment date?"

"I don't understand." She says, panic suddenly in her eyes.

_His hand shakes as he picks up the envelope; not because it's heavy, but because of what's inside. He knows, he already knows, because of the size; he knows it says – Congratulations. His father takes him into his study; for the first time in eighteen years; and he hands him a letter opener from his desk; elegant and silver; delicate, yet heavy. "Open it." And he does. He pulls out the letter and hands it to his father. He watches him. His eyes take in the words, moving down the lines of neatly typed letters. He watches him. His eyes; there's something in them, something he hasn't seen before - pride? He almost smiles as he reaches the bottom of the page; laying a heavy hand on his shoulder._

_He pours them two glasses of scotch. The finest single-molt. The one he keeps for people who get to call him Gerry. They drink. And it burns; his throat feels dry and tight; tears stinging in his eyes. But he doesn't cough and he doesn't cry. _

_The phone rings and he dismisses him, but then calls out as the young man reaches the door. "Fitzgerald," and he turns around, "You are going to Harvard. Grant men, Grant men do not go to Yale." He looks down, and he swears, for a moment, he can see a glimpse of regret. "It was always going to be Harvard, son." He pauses, before waving him off with his hand, "You were going there, from the day you took your first breath."_

_He climbs up, up to his room, staring at the deep blue. He applied without telling anyone; he applied and he got in; not because of his name, but because of him. It's the first thing he's ever achieved. He crumples the paper and throws it in the bin, a wistful smile, lingering. "It was always going to be Harvard, son," echoing in his mind._

"The date all the fees were paid? Everything, college, law school, everything, when was it?" She just looks at him, her mouth opening and closing silently. "Was it October 12th 1968?" She just nods her head.

He should feel relief. Relief flooding over him; but instead, instead he's suffocating. It was all decided. The day he was born. The day they knew he was a boy; an heir; an heir to great Grant men. Great Grant men. He can't breathe. His whole life was decided, everything pre-planned; everything organized, strategized. He knew that already, he did; but suddenly it's suffocating him. It's not the lack of choice that's constricting his throat; it's his own lack of rebellion. It's the feeling of cowardice; of complacency because of fear. He needs to get out of these clothes, to get home. He steps off the path; onto the wet grass and he runs.

_"He didn't mean to." She says as she wipes his tear away. He just nods. They both know, know that he doesn't believe her, know that he can hear right through her broken tone; they both know that he meant to; of course he meant to. _

_He gets up. His cheek still on fire; a hand-print on his arm. It burns; but more than that it stings. _

_"You need to make it right with Mellie." She says, her voice almost a whisper. "Big Gerry, he, he needs you to make it right with Mellie."_

_"I don't love her, mom."_

_"No. But you love your father." He shakes his head. "And you love me. So you will make it right with Mellie." She props herself on her toes and kisses his cheek. _

_"Did you ever love him?" She looks up at him; a sudden sadness in her eyes. _

_"I did," She smiles, almost bitterly; "He just never loved me." He sees the glint of anger in his eyes; a quiet fire, set alight; "He's not a bad man Fitzy. He's just unhappy. This, this isn't the life he wanted."_

The melting ice in the crystal glass reminds him of his mother's eyes; the light; the ever-elusive light.

She was right – he was unhappy. But she was also wrong; he is a bad man. The unhappiness, it made him bad.

The scotch no longer burns, no, now it soothes; it numbs. And he likes Harvard; he enjoys it – like the Grant men before him. He tilts his head back, leans it against the cool wall. In three years, or five; maybe ten, ten if he's lucky as hell; he will wake up and realize that he hates his life. Because it's not the life he wanted, with the woman he loves. Because if he follows, follows his father's plan he can't have Olivia. He can love her, be with her now, but at some point, along the way she will stop loving him, because he won't be able to love himself. So if he wants her, if he wants even a shot at happiness, a mere shot, he has to gather the courage to break away, to forge his own path. It sounds so simple to a free mind; but to him it's the scariest thing in life. Because Fitzgerald Grant, he was brought up to believe he was better than others, but never good enough.

There's a soft knock on the door. He looks at the clock. It's late. Damn. They were meant to meet. He was meant to meet her.

"Hi." She says, her eyes taking in his face; the dark circles; the heavy sweetness of his breath. "Are you alright?" There's no anger in her voice, just concern; a hint of love too pure; love that makes him feel even worse.

"I just…" He can't explain it. She won't understand. Because all people see when they see him is fortune and success; privilege. She won't understand. But before he can stop himself, "They paid for Harvard the day I was born. For everything, college, law school; _for admission_. They set it all up and they didn't even have to manipulate me, I just went along; I never questioned, never complained. I never wanted to be the president, I never wanted Law School, I didn't want the Navy, I didn't want any of it. But I never said anything. They didn't force me. They just gave it to me, and I took it." And he wants to say – _and now I hate myself for it_. But he doesn't he just takes in a sharp breath.

She steps in, her eyes never leaving his. She closes the door behind her back and then puts her hands on his shoulders. She wants to tell him that of course they manipulated him, he was a child and they expected obedience for their love. Of course they forced him, maybe not overtly, but they never gave him any choices. She wants to tell him, but she knows that he couldn't hear it; not right now. So instead of absolution, she offers him relief, a possible out; she offers him future, without dispelling with the burdens of the past.

"What do _you_ want to do?" Instantly he thinks of writing. But it's silly; childish really. That, that's not a realistic dream.

So he just kisses her instead of answering. "I want to be with you." He's deflecting; using her as a shield, a safety net. He is tying his dreams to her, counting on her to make the losses OK, to counterbalance his mistakes; counting on her to give his life meaning. He's counting on her love to give him purpose in life. It's a burden too heavy, too unfair, for any love to bear. And he knows it; deep inside he does. He knows that for them to survive, he needs to grow up.

And she knows it too. It frightens her.

But she lets it slide. Tonight she lets it slide. She kisses him. Running her hand through his unruly curls – their messiness is what she loves about him. She kisses him. Slowly, tenderly. Her tongue lazily teasing his. And she frees him from his clothes. She kisses a trail down his body, taking him in.

They lie on their sides, their elbows under their cheeks, their eyes glowing – battling sleep.

"You can be great, you know that?" She asks, her knuckles brushing against his cheek.

"I got accepted to Yale." He says; pride in his voice; pride she never heard before.

"To study what?"

"English literature and politics." He smiles as he says it; kissing her quickly. "I used to like writing. When I was in school, I used to like writing."

The next morning he wakes up and she's gone. On the kitchen table a typewriter with a note – "It's not about being great. It's about being happy. And you like writing, so maybe, maybe this could be a beginning of happy."

* * *

"Hello, Fitzgerald."

"Hi, Alice. How is she today?" The nurse nods her head, but there's a look; a look he knows, a look he's become accustomed to. "Can I see her?" She doesn't say anything, she just leads the way.

"Mom?" She doesn't look up. She just rocks, back and forth, back and forth; her face traveling from deep shade into the morning sun, and then disappearing again. He kneels down, and takes her hands in his, "Mom, it's me." She looks ahead, into the light; the ever-elusive light.

"I met a girl." He breathes in, and lifts himself up to his feet, pulling up a chair. "I think I'm in love with her." She stops. Instantly, and looks at him.

"No." She shrieks almost. "Love, love will break your heart. Love, love will break your mind." She looks at him for another moment and then her eyes go blank. They glide. Effortlessly. Getting lost in the distance.

It's the first time she speaks to him; the first time in a year. The first time since the scandal. The first time since love broke her heart, her mind, her life.

* * *

**So that last part was a bit of a curveball, huh? **

**More about that scandal to come. And thank you so much for following/faving/reviewing - I love reading all your reviews, they honestly inspire me so much!**


	8. Disappearing

**So the rating changed. To M. So if you're not into that, you can skip this chapter. For those who brave on, enjoy :)**

* * *

"Don't look at me!" She hisses under her breath, eyes never leaving the page.

He just smirks as he turns over a new leaf, his eyes never leaving her lips. "How come?"

"Because you're distracting me." She wills herself to keep looking at the page, but it's pointless; the words, the sentences, none of it makes any sense. Her focus shattered by his piercing gaze.

He lowers his hand under the table and squeezes her knee gently, but she, she still refuses to look at him. He starts moving it up, up her thigh.

"Fitz, focus." She whispers, half-heartedly, her voice was meant to sound firm, but it instead it just comes out breathy and unsure. She loses herself around him; gets lost in him.

"I am." He whispers in her ear; the hot breath sending chills down her spine.

"On studying." But there's that huskiness in her voice; the tone she knows drives him crazy followed by her hand rubbing his crotch. She finally looks at him, batting her eyelashes innocently, as his mouth opens slightly, his ears turning red.

Footsteps.

She gets up, her hand slowly traveling up his body, lingering at the base of his neck. "Our spot. Five minutes." She turns on her heel and leaves; a scent of vanilla and lavender lingering. He throws his head back, shutting his eyes in an attempt to think of something that would let him calm down, at least enough to walk out. But all he sees is the sway of her hips, and the way her bra-strap was hanging off her shoulder; how she was biting her lip absentmindedly.

"Took you long enough." She says as she hears the turn of the lock; her back towards the door.

"You said five." He walks towards her, stopping mere inches away, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, but far enough, so that they're not touching. "I was here in three." Her shoulders move up involuntarily, reacting to his breath ticking her skin; the air feels like soft touches in the charged atmosphere.

"I thought you'd only need one." She says as she turns around, tilting her head to look at him; her eyes smiling, her lips curving.

And hurriedly, it's large hands reaching for her face, her hands reaching for his shoulders; tongues dueling, lips moving sloppily across skin; marking. He lifts her up and she's sitting on an old cupboard; his hands running up and down her thighs, hers squeezing his ass. The sounds of heavy breathing; belt being unbuckled; clothes falling to the floor; soft moans swallowed in deep kisses. The room no longer smells of cleaning supplies and moldy wood, it smell of sex, vanilla and lavender, and sweet sweat; it smells of them. She reaches into his underwear, while biting his shoulder. She feels his fingers inside of her slow down for a moment, pressing her spot, pushing, gently pressing. It feels so good, so good it almost hurts. For a moment she disappears in the fire cursing though her. But she needs him to move and she grinds against his hand, gliding hers up, along his base, as her thumb circles the tip, lightly; spreading the milky liquid. A hitched, "Livvie," escapes his lips, sending vibrations along her skin. He pulls his fingers out, but before she can protest he's sucking on her swollen clit; sucking it; biting, ever-so-gently. His tongue, curling up; makes her fall apart. She arches her back, her grip tightening around him; her eyes shutting.

Her breathing still unsteady, she runs her hand down his back, her nails lazily scraping the skin, as she kisses him. He tastes like her and there's something so intimate, so sensual about it. She wraps her, still shaky, legs around his waist, as he pulls her closer to the edge, aligning himself with her entrance. He pushes in, slowly, barely, teasing; and then he pulls out, rubbing his tip against her clit; making her breath hitch. "Fitz…" and her voice is pleading, her nails pushing into his lower back. He obliges; pushing in, deeper, filling her up to the brim. And her hips move, to change the angle slightly, to accommodate more of him. Two bodies, moving in sync, to the rhythm of primal need.

She can feel the hot liquid running down her thigh, but she's too exhausted to do anything about it; too content to move. His palms are on the cool wall, on her either side; her head thrown back, resting between them. His head is on her shoulder and he kisses it lightly, trying to catch his breath, to steady himself. She runs her hand lazily down his abs, letting it rest on her thigh. Neither speaks for a moment, for a while, until their breaths are no longer rugged and shallow; until their limbs are no longer shaky, and their eyelids no longer heavy.

His knuckles caress her cheek.

She looks at him. "Hi."

And she smiles, leaning into his touch, "Hi."

Always, as if they're seeing each other for the first time. The beauty of the moment never diminished, or lost, only intensified.

"That was…" And her smile just widens, her eyes suddenly glossy, her cheeks blushing.

"Amazing." He says, smiling against her lips, their foreheads touching. And she just nods, her nose brushing against his, making them both chuckle lightly.

He gets a pack of tissues out and they clean each other up, never breaking the eye contact. They get dressed, taking each other in, taking in the bodies that make them feel things, things they couldn't even imagine.

"This is the last time we're doing this here." She says through a wide grin, turning the door-handle slowly.

"Mhmmmm." He says, standing right behind her, forever invading her personal space; breathing in her scent; but now – she no longer smells like vanilla and lavender; she smells like him instead. "That's what you said the last time, and the time before, and the time before…" And he keeps on going, as they walk down the deserted hall; in their bubble; all alone.

"I got coffee," the redhead chimes as they sit down, "but it's probably gone cold now, because you weren't- Where were you?"

"Toilet."

"Outside." They answer at the same time.

They look at each other, mortified. "I thought we said toilet?" She hisses under her breath.

"But then you said that's too strange, that we'd go at the same time. So I said outside."

Abby just watches on, amused, as they scramble for words, looking for fruitless explanations. "So, the supply closet again?" And they just nod their heads, their faces changing ten different shades of scarlet. "I hate you. Both of you. And your stupid sex glow. And your sex faces. And your sex hair. And all your sex. You two make me feel like a nun in a nightclub. I feel sexless."

"Would you shut up?" A guy from a couple tables down shouts, making them look up, only to realize everyone is eyeing them up and down; Abby's rant, clearly, too loud.

They should feel mortified, or embarrassed, uncomfortable at least; but instead they just get into a laughter fit. He grabs her hand and pulls her up to her feet, and they run out of the library, laughing.

* * *

It's past midnight and they're sitting at his kitchen table. She's writing something furiously in her notebook, as he types away loudly.

"You should go to sleep, Liv." He says without looking up. His eyes follow the paper, as it moves from right to left; amazed by the way letters get imprinted on the smooth surface, mesmerized by the way his thoughts are suddenly out there, before him, no longer running away, no longer hiding. There's a sense of relief in it; a sense of a burden being lifted – the thoughts, the feelings, finally out, finally freeing up space in his mind for what's to come.

"No, I need to finish this." She says, absentmindedly. "But you go ahead." He finally lifts his gaze and smiles, as she stops writing and looks up. "What?"

"Nothing." He looks down at the paper, a portrait of his mind in black and white. "I just… I love you." She drops her pen, but not his gaze. He can't read her face. "You don't have to say it!" He exclaims, before he can give her a chance to freak out. "I know it's soon. OK, I know we've only known each other for a few months, and we've only been dating for a little while, but I don't need more time. I already know; I love you. I love how the intensity with which you write changes depending on your mood. And I love it when you wear your hair like that. Or any other way, really." He ads, tripping on his words, flustered. "And I love how you walk, and the sound of your voice. And I love that you got me a typewriter and not a computer. Because this, this doesn't let me erase anything; it forces me to stand behind what I say, to face it. And I love that you knew that's what I needed. And I love the way you kiss me, and how you snuggle up to me in the morning. And your smile, oh god, that smile, that one," he smiles as well, tilting his head, "it just makes me fall in love a little bit more, every time. And I know, it's early. So you, you don't have to say it, you don't have to say anything; but I want you to know that I love you. I'm in love with you, Liv."

She scoots over to him, laying a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you too. I am in love with you too." Before; a couple of months ago, she would have freaked out; she would have felt she was undeserving of it; undeserving of happy. But now, now for a blissful moment, happiness is all she feels. For a moment, all she feels is worthy. For a moment she feels complete. And it's an overwhelmingly unfamiliar feeling.

He goes back to writing. It's a story. Of a boy and girl, who fell in love, suddenly; in love with each other, in love with loving. A story of a boy and a girl getting lost in love, disappearing in love. He thinks it's romantic; he thinks it's the perfect love. He never shows it to her. Because deep inside, deep inside he knows to her that's not romantic; it's terrifying. To her, disappearing, even with him, is terrifying.

She picks up her pen from the desk and goes back to the neat list on the page. A list of reasons to go and to stay. It's a list of schools she wants to apply to, three of her choices on a different continent; two of them here, with him. Deep down she wants to go; she's always wanted to go, to escape in order to find herself; but she knows she'll stay; despite the list, despite all the reasons pro; she'll stay, because of him. Because she loves him. She'll stay. As she crosses out the right side of the page, she loses a part of herself.

A part of her, for a part of him.

Disappearing.

* * *

**It was... I swear it was going to be just hotness and fluff. But then the ending just sneaked up on me. Thanks so much for your reviews, I LOVELOVELOVE reading them :)**


	9. The First Christmas

He can feel her absence before he opens his eyes. The bed is just a little bit colder, and the room is a little bit quieter and the air just a little bit heavier without her there. He rolls to the side of the bed, still in the cocoon of the warm covers that smell like her. The floor is cool against his bare feet and it makes him shiver, instantly. He reaches for his hoodie, but it's gone, and this time the absence – it makes him smile.

"Liv, I'm coming out!" He yells and waits for a reply. Yesterday he interrupted her while she was wrapping presents in the living room; surrounded by a mountain of colorful paper and ribbons, listening to the Queen record he got her. He had startled her and nearly ruined a surprise, so now he has to make his presence known at all times. So he yells out, and waits, hand on the door handle – ready to go.

"OK, Fine!" She's sitting at the kitchen table, grinning while sipping her coffee.

"You made me wait! I thought you were wrapping presents." He says with an exaggerated pout.

"I just wanted to see you make that face again." She says as she gets up, winking over her shoulder. She walks to the kitchen, to pour him a cup of coffee, adding just a little bit extra sway to her hips. A little bit extra sway that he doesn't miss.

"Livvy." He's right behind her in a blink, pausing for a moment, just breathing her in. He wraps his arms around her waist, making her turn around and face him. "Good morning Livvy." He says it so quietly, it's just lips brushing against lips, their noses touching, his thumbs grazing her cheekbones. They just look at each other for a moment. His eyes take hers in, the way the specs of gold shimmer, and then the darkness that clouds them as his thumb travels down her cheek and to her lips, lingering at the parting, his fingertips barely touching the bottom lip. Her breath is shallow, the air hot, almost moist. Her chest suddenly moving rapidly, her hand cupping his crotch, his member throbbing. She closes her eyes and moves his hand to her breast, her lips crashing on his. Her tongue is teasing the tip of his, her hand moving past his waistband. He pulls away momentarily; looking at her though a haze. "Your mom?"

"She just went out." She answers breathily, smiling at him mischievously. He lifts her up on the counter, running his hand down her thigh; then back up – slowly, excruciatingly slowly. He pulls his hoodie off of her, and she gives him a seductive smirk, playing with the hem of her t-shirt. He just takes a moment, a moment to take her in like that – the messy bun, and the desire-dark eyes, an unmistakable glint of happiness in them; the t-shirt falling of her shoulder, her hands busy inching his up her thighs.

"I love you." She just kisses him in response, wrapping her arms around his neck, losing her hands in his hair; letting her tongue play with his – slowly; wrapping her legs around his waist. And his hands are under her shirt and playing with the rim of her underwear, when-

"You're not going to believe what happene-" And they freeze.

She bites his lip and he drops his hands to his sides instantly, jumping at least three feet back, turning to the wall, pulling his t-shirt down awkwardly, trying to cover up the tent that is his underwear.

"Morning Fitz." Her mom says, trying desperately not to laugh as he turns around, his face scarlet; his legs crossed and his t-shirt pulled down to his knees. He just nods his head, and mumbles something. "You should probably go shower." And he just nods again, relief flooding his face. As he passes the kitchen counter he grazes her thigh, as he picks the hoodie up, and she gives him a reassuring smile. And for a moment he forgets to be mortified, but then he sees her mother looking at him, grinning, and he hurries along, carrying the balled-up hoodie in front.

"Really, Liv? Kitchen? I mean, really? In front of the Lucky Kitty?" And she looks at the ceramic cat, a work of art by the six year-old Olivia, sitting in the corner of the kitchen counter; one painted eye staring at Olivia, the other one at the bedroom door.

Liv buries her head in her hands laughing uncontrollably. "I'm _really_ sorry!" Then she looks up, the smile fading quickly, being replaced by worry, "But mom, this was all me. Seriously, it was my idea, I started it, you can't be pissed off with Fitz."

Her mom just looks at her for a moment, studying her face closely. "Liv, honey, you have a boyfriend that you're head-over-heels in love with," she looks at the floor, avoiding her mother's gaze, she's not ready, not yet – to admit how hard she's fallen, how much he's come to mean; how deeply she really loves him; "it's not like I lived under an impression you weren't having sex. As long as you're being safe," and the daughter just nods her head, "and as long as I don't witness it, _ever _again, I can live with that."

"OK!" She exclaims, her voice unnaturally high. "It won't happen ever again," she says as she slides off the kitchen counter, looking at it, blushing.

"Don't be silly. Of course it will. Let's just make sure I don't walk in on it." And her mother grins, before heading to the living room to find her car keys. "Oh, and Liv," she pauses in the doorway, somewhat theatrically, "please disinfect the countertop, I need to make cupcakes for tomorrow."

* * *

"We don't have to go to this thing." He says, as he falls back onto the bed, contemplating, playing dead. If he just lies there lifelessly, there's no way she can move him, she's tiny. And sure, she'd get annoyed with him, but she'd get over it; and honestly, he can handle her anger a lot better than his father's provocations.

"We are going." She says for the tenth time from the bathroom, rolling her eyes in the mirror. She applies the final coat of mascara, blinking a few times, making sure nothing will smudge. She steps away from the mirror and runs her hands down the front of the dress, ironing out the invisible wrinkles. Really, she's just trying to calm down her nerves. She's heard stories, horror stories about this man; apparently nothing redeeming about him; and now she has to go spend hours at his charity function, keeping Fitz away from the bar and trying to get the devil to like her, after she shattered all of his plans for his son. Maybe he's right, maybe they should just stay in tonight. She opens her mouth to yell out, but stops, drawing in a deep breath instead. Her hand reaches for the little silver mirror in her makeup bag, tracing the engraving lightly; letting the thin lines tickle her fingertips.

_"Liv, it's Christmas Eve, are you sure you want to go to the party?" Her mom asks, but really she's pleading. "You don't want to stay here?"_

_Her father is having another one of his episodes and she just can't handle it; not anymore. She can's stay, she can't stay and watch him stare at the Christmas lights, as if they're magical, while avoiding to look at the two most important people in his life. No she can't stay. She can't have another Christmas Eve of talking to her mother quietly, because they don't want to disturb him, she can't handle another evening of trying to get him to be excited, of trying to make him happy – when they all know that's the one thing he can't be. She can't. And she feels awful about it, it's another personal failing, yet another time she's failed him. But failing him, she knows how to deal with it, she knows how to bury the feelings, how to manage them. Disappointment of looking at him on Christmas Eve, looking at him while he stares at the Christmas tree, hoping that he'll smile, even if it is just at the lights; that, that she can's manage. That, that still hurts the same – like a gaping hole in her stomach, the endless sinking of her insides; the burning in her mind. The burning, her deepest fear – what if one day she ends up like him? So no, she can't stay. Stay and wonder. Instead she goes to the party. She drinks too much, too quickly. She sleeps with a guy she'll never see again, but he makes her feel better for a breathless moment. She walks around the city until the early morning – sobering. She comes home and they open the presents. They all smile, they all say thanks, they look picture perfect. It's empty and it's hollow and she aches. She wishes she could be anywhere else. _

_Next year, she stays in on the Christmas Eve. He's gone. She missed his last one. So she stays in and watches the lights on the Christmas tree. Quietly. Drowning in guilt. Clutching the mirror she got from him last year; unable to look at it – her reflection haunting. _

She steps out of the bathroom and chuckles to herself. He's sprawled out on the bed, almost lifeless, as if that will make any difference. "Look, Fitz. I missed my dad's last Christmas Eve. And he's dead, I mean he doesn't care. But I do, I wish I'd been there. So this, us going; it's not about him, it's about you. We'll go; we'll have some amazingly expensive alcohol, we'll mingle and we'll leave. And he'll probably still be a dick, and you'll probably feel shitty, but one day you'll be glad you did it."

He sighs and runs his hands though his hair, down his face, pushing his head further into the mattress. He finally looks up, ready to say "OK," but all that comes out is, "Wow!"

She smiles, instantly hanging her head down, blushing. The way he looks at her, his eyes taking her in, the way one look at her seems to light a fire within him – it's still overwhelming; she still doesn't understand it. She's wearing a light-silver, almost white, silk dress that falls down her body perfectly, the soft material rippling rhythmically as she moves, as she sways her hips, accentuating her every curve. The thin straps hold up the ruched neckline, and the back, the back is non-existent.

He jumps off the bed immediately, and his enthusiasm makes her laugh. As she tries to calm herself down, looking at his smitten expression all that she can think of is how much she loves him. Not just because he can make her laugh, but because he makes her feel worthy of laughing. He makes her feel like her lungs deserve to be filled up with laughter, rather than sadness, like her eyes should carry light, and not be dimmed by the scars of the past.

"You don't play fair, Livvie." He says as he kisses her neck. His hand resting low on her back. He doesn't move it as they walk to the car, or during the quiet drive; he doesn't move it as they walk up the steps and into the world where money defines happiness.

"You must be Olivia." And instantly, at the sound of the voice as soft as honey, but as harsh as the liquor in his glass, he straightens his spine, he lifts his head up – no longer a young man, he is a soldier. She nods her head, and extends her hand, smiling.

"I am. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grant."

He kisses her hand, bowing his head slightly, "The pleasure is all mine, Olivia." He eyes her up and down, still holding onto her hand. She feels naked, bare; she feels guilty, like she's sinned. She feels like a child again, a child caught in a lie – reduced to an infant by this man's cold eyes. She hates it. She hates the way he's looking at Fitz, like he's not worthy, a glint in his eyes, a glint of something – animosity, or jealousy maybe? He finally lets go of her hand and steps away, his eyes still fixed on them. "I am glad you came. There are some people I want you to meet Fitzgerald," and he nods his head towards a leggy blonde, "Lauren will keep you company, Olivia." He spits it out, motioning Fitz to follow him, as he turns around.

"No, dad. Olivia and I-"

"Fitzgerald, Olivia will be fine. Unless you think she can't manage on her own at functions like this?" Fitz just shakes his head; his face a deep red.

"It's OK Fitz. I'll just wait for you here." She smiles weakly, squeezing his hand briefly, before turning to Lauren. She's known him for five minutes and she already hates that man. And she doesn't hate. She doesn't, not really, she dislikes, hate, hate requires too much dedication, too much energy; but him – she hates him.

She talks to Lauren. She's graduating from Yale Law in a few months; then she's taking her bar. She seems smart and driven, ambitious even. "So what do you plan on doing after you pass the bar?" She asks, sipping on her wine.

"Oh, I'm getting married." The girl exclaims happily.

"Congratulations." She says between the sips, clutching her wine glass tightly. "But I meant, what are you doing career-wise?"

"What do you mean?" The blonde asks, quirking her eyebrow.

"As in, your career?" It comes out lower than her actual voice, and perhaps, slightly patronizing, but the girl is just being unnecessarily evasive.

"Oh, silly! I told you, I'm getting married." She just stares at her, blinking, trying to figure out what that's supposed to mean. Seeing the confusion on her face the blonde just carries on, "Well, my fiancé is running for office, so he'll need me by his side. So I'm not working after I pass the bar. I'll just support him, help him out." She smiles warmly at Liv, looking at her like she's a child child who just found out there's no Santa.

"Oh right." She says with a weak smile, "But why bother with the bar then?"

"Oh, it looks a lot better if I have it. With female voters and all."

Before Liv can say anything, "Ms. Pope, Mr Grant would like to see you for a moment." She follows the brown-haired twenty-something to a dark office; the old man pacing in front of his desk.

She clears her throat, as she stands in the door. He stops and looks up, motioning her silently to come in. He leans against his desk, inspecting his feet carefully, before speaking. "Fitzgerald just informed me that he has no intention of running."

_He is walking to his father's office door, straightening his bowtie as he goes; making sure all_ _his buttons are in order – he can't appear disheveled. His mother asked him to find him, to get him so they could head back. She knows better, better than to do it herself. So instead, she sends a ten year-old, who is now walking down a deserted hallway, his heart beating out of his chest as he tries to fix his lapel. He turns the handle and pushes the heavy door in. He can't un-see. That's all that he thinks. He wishes he could un-see. He wants to close the door, pretend it never happened, but the floor-boards creak beneath his shaky feet and the girl on the floor moves her head between his father's legs and looks at him. Then she looks up, her eyes wide, her voice shaky; her finger pointing to the door, "Gerry." And he turns around, howling, "Wait outside Fitzgerald." And he does. He waits. For his father to scream the girl's name, to tell her to clean him up, to tell her to stay quiet. He waits and when the door opens he gets a slap across his small face. "You are never to interrupt again."_

_And he doesn't. Every year after that he spends Christmas by his mother's side, and once everyone starts clearing up he looks for his father; he knocks and he waits. He never interrupts again. He enables. He waits, wishing he could be anywhere else instead. He stands there quietly, drowning in quilt. _

His mother is gone this year, so all he needs once people start clearing out is Liv; he needs her and then they can leave. "She's with your father," Lauren tells him, as she puts down her drink, getting ready to leave. She turns around as she reaches the steps, lifting her eyes from rummaging through her bag, "She's not cut out for this Fitz. She hasn't been brought up like us, she doesn't understand the sacrifices; she doesn't understand that in this life – someone's got to give, and it's not going to be you Fitz." And with that she turns away, fingering a small bag of white powder that she managed to fish out of her bag.

He hears the voices coming from the office, their echo breaking up the sound of his own steps. He reaches for the handle, and pushes the door in – he doesn't feel fear; no all he feels is rage.

"Your son doesn't want to run. And if he decides that he does, I will be there by his side. He can win. He can be amazing, he is amazing; without you and in spite of you. He is brilliant and charming and he would make an excellent politician. But if you push him into it, if you force him to do it, he will hate you, and himself for it. He will run and he will win, and you will keep pushing him. And one day, he might get to the White House, because he is that great and that brilliant. He might get to the White House. But he won't be happy. Because it's not his dream. It was never his dream. Give him time and give him space, to decide what it is that he wants. And if, in the end, it's to be the president, he will ask for your help. You force him, you push him – he will resent you for it, and even if he wins he will never be as great as he could be." She breathes in, looking at the old man's face; shock mixed with indignation. "You are to stay the hell away from our relationship. You don't think I fit in with the Party, you don't think they'd approve of me? Well, if Fitz decides to run they better get used to it, because he will be good enough for them to have to support him. They and you, _sir,_ will have to get over it."

"Livvy…" His voice startles her, breaks her out. She looks at him, panic in her eyes, but in his there's nothing but love. "Let's go."

"Fitzgerald, we are not done."

"Yes you are." And he comes in, interrupting, and leads her out. He doesn't take his eyes off of her the whole walk back. Hours of walking around, in a cold winter night, looking at the girl who's the love of his life. He knows that now; the truth so clear, so blatantly obvious, a feeling so omnipresent that he can't remember a time when it wasn't there. He just looks at her. And she looks at him, occasionally, just making sure he's still OK, still looking. She stood up for him. She stood up to Big Gerry. No one in his whole life ever loved him enough to do that, ever had enough strength. Everyone was always too afraid. What he finally understands is that the reason she could, the reason she would, again, is because it's the love for him that gave her strength; the hurt in his eyes that let her unleash her rage. He can't run for office, he can't be the president; Lauren was right – she's not cut out for that. He'll just write instead. Write about an undefeatable love. A love that will never die.

She goes to bed once they get back, but he stays up; Harvard hoodie that smells like her, and a beer in hand, just staring into space. A voice startles him.

"It went that well?" The woman asks from the doorway, giving him a kind smile.

He gets up, shifting his weight awkwardly, he hasn't seen her since this morning. "No, not really. My father, he's just…" And his voice trails off, there's nothing to say, not a single fitting word in his brain.

"Is never going to change Fitz. Your father will never change. And the sooner you accept that, and try and get whatever good you can from the relationship, the sooner you will be able to forgive him; to stop hating him."

"I don-"

"Yes you do." She says softly. "I see it in Liv. She hates him, and she barely knows him. Because she's so in love with you and she can't stand to see you hurt. It's a burden, the hate, it just makes you feel worse and he will stay the same."

He just nods his head, and she looks at him for another moment before she heads back to bed. "How…" she stops in the doorway, "how do you let go of it?"

She looks at him over her shoulder and smiles weakly. "I'm still learning. But I think, I think the key is to let more love in."

"Thank you Mrs. Pope."

She turns around now, fully. "Call me Dianne, Fitz. I mean I've seen more of you-, just call me Dianne. And, all of this, all the let-go-of-the-hate and all of my Zen, if you hurt Liv, I will hunt you down to the pits of hell if I have to and I will make you pay. I've never seen her like this. This in love, this happy. And it's because of you, so thank you. But I swear, if you break her heart, I will break your neck."

"I love her too."

She's quiet for a moment, contemplating whether to say it, "I know. But sometimes life beats the crap out of love. Happened with me and my husband. So just, don't, don't let that happen to her, to you. Just, don't break her heart. She's been through enough. Too much." She doesn't let him respond. There's no need to. She knows what he'd say, she knows what he feels. She also knows that their love is great, immortal, and they, they're just human, fallible and a little bit broken.

Sometimes a great love is too big of a burden.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning and she's there, looking at him, smiling. She kisses his nose quickly and then wiggles out of bed, racing down to the Christmas tree. They open the presents. They all smile, they all say thanks, they look picture perfect. But it's not empty and hollow. She laughs when he tickles her, and his smile stays on for days to come after he sees the laptop she got him – now he can erase things, fix things. And they lie under the Christmas tree, looking up at the lights, their fingers intertwined. They can imagine their future. Christmases like this, one day kids, small kisses and chubby babies. They can imagine themselves being happy.

They can imagine themselves healing.

* * *

**I know this took a while. A longer while. But my brain was being a bit of an ass and refusing to cooperate with me, until this morning. I think my brain just doesn't want to work towards the end of this story.**

**There should be another chapter for this by Wednesday, and then Grow Up should be up by Friday. And Another Chance I'm taking a mini break, because I'll need the fluff and the healthy-happy Olitz once this crashes and burns. **

**Thank you so, so, so much for your reviews - I love reading them, and they genuinely make me laugh, smile and think, sometimes all three at the same time. **


	10. Between the Raindrops

**I couldn't watch the marathon on BET today *sobs* so I just watched The Trail and wrote this while watching S1 clips instead *sobs again*. But a special thank you to all of you on Tumblr – your comments/gifs literally made my day. Y'all hilarious!**

* * *

"I'm off to bed." She says as she bends down to kiss him, running her hand down his chest, while the other one plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Night." She murmurs it between kisses, the second one longer, deeper, her tongue seeking out his.

"Livvie…" He says breathlessly, looking up at her, "Kiss me like that one more time and I will forget all about this, leave it unfinished, follow you to bed and have my way with you." His hand sneaks under her shirt as her whispers it, the hot breath making her quiver.

She pulls away slightly and kisses his temple, murmuring into his hair, "No, stay and work. We can continue this tomorrow."

"No…" it's a drawn-out whine, followed by a dramatic drop of the head to the keyboard, "I hate it when you're rational!"

"Goodnight Fitz." She doesn't look at him as she says it, no, she can only be rational to an extent and there's just something about his pouty face. She falls asleep to the sound of him typing – the sound of his thoughts turning into writing. She wakes up in his arm; his head nuzzled in the crook of her neck, his jaw resting on her shoulder, his hand on her breast. She brings it to her lips and lays a small kiss on the inside of his palm, than another one on the back of the hand, just below the knuckles. She lingers for a moment, turning her cheek so that it rests against the warm skin. She drops his hand down slowly, and tries to wiggle out of his arms; but they're wrapped tight and he stirs as soon as she moves, letting out a muffled, "No." She turns her head to kiss his temple, but really she's trying to distract him as she moves her legs closer to the edge of the bed. "Livvy." And he tightens his grip.

"I need to go make coffee." She says through a soft chuckle, as she relaxes into him.

"OK." And he loosens his arms around her, as he kisses her shoulder. She doesn't want to move. Their bodies are perfectly intertwined; she is perfectly lost in him; she is perfectly at one with him – they are perfectly in sync. She doesn't want to move and she's a little bit mad that he's letting her – yes she asked, but he should know better by know. He should know that she'd rather stay in bed; he should know that she doesn't actually have a class this morning; he should know that she doesn't really need coffee. But he doesn't; so she moves; or at least she tries to. She manages to get almost out of his arms' reach, but then he pulls her back, and starts ticking her sides, and sucking on the soft skin of her neck.

She laughs loudly, throwing her head back, until it's hitting his chest. "Fitz!"

"You didn't think I'd really let you go, did you!" He stops ticking her and moves his hands slowly to her stomach, his fingertips barely touching her skin. "You don't have a class this morning, and you only drink coffee before your classes."

"You think you know me so well don't you." She says, as she brings his head up with her finger, lowering her lips to his. At first they barely touch, but then her lips are molding to his, the little creases fitting together perfectly. She moves slowly, the faint touch, the absence of it, sending electricity through their bodies. She lets her tongue trace the seam of his lips, asking to be let in. He opens them and lets the tip of her tongue tease his out, as she brings her hand to the nape of her neck, her fingers playing with the fine hairs, before she pushes his head closer; sneaking her tongue in deeper. He outlines her belly button with his fingertip, slowly dragging it lower, past her hip, playing with the rim of her drenched underwear. He pushes his fingers past the scrap of lace, along her slit, swallowing her moan, as he presses his thumb on her clit. He breaks the kiss and pulls his head back to look at her, as her eyes flutter shut and her head falls on his shoulder. He teases her entrance with his finger, as she grinds back into him, the hardness against her back making her drip. She sneaks her hand behind her back, pushing it past his waistband, wrapping it around his throbbing member. She flicks her thumb around his tip as she starts moving her hand up and down, matching the pace oh his fingers. He pinches her nipple, before biting her shoulder, soothing it over with the flat of his tongue. Her breathing picks up, and her hand movements slow down, so he pushes in one more time, curving his fingers up. He can feel her muscles clench around him, as she breathes out his name. He lets her orgasm ripple through her, before pulling his fingers out, and bringing them to his mouth – sucking them dry. She rolls on her back, trying to catch her breath, and he just says, "Yeah, I think I know you pretty well." She opens her eyes and smiles at him, lifting her head to kiss him quickly.

He lies on top of her, aligning himself with her entrance. He pushes his tip in, then pulls out completely, making her lift her hips in protest. He pushes in again, filling her up, and she tightens her muscles around him as he pulls out. She wraps her legs around his waist, lifting her hips slightly, trying to get a better angle – he hits her spot harder, going in deeper. He picks up his pace, their breathing heavy, her eyelids falling; she can feel her nerves tingling – her whole body falling in sync with his, as she fists the sheets. He pulls out again, but before she can protest he's throwing her legs over his shoulders and slipping it in again – impossibly deep. She screams out his name, as pleasure mixes with the most glorious pain. And again. And again. He feels her muscles clench, as her toes curl and her head falls back into the pillow, her lips parting lazily. He keeps going, until he's falling right with her – his juices filling her. He falls to his elbows, careful not to crush her, as he drops his head to her shoulder. He stays inside of her for another moment, trying to catch a breath. He rolls to his side, a content smile setting on his face. They lie on their back, chests heaving. She turns to her side and scoots up next to him – molding her body to his; their legs intertwining, as her cheek lies on his chest – their skin sweaty and sweet. They don't speak. He wraps his arm around her, drawing a line along her spine, and she rests her palm just above his heart – feeling its beats slow down.

"I should get up." She murmurs into his chest half-heartedly.

"One minute." She just nods her head, and snuggles closer to him. It's not about the time, it's not about the sixty seconds that count down. It's about them, not thinking about anything, anyone, or anywhere else in that moment. It's about them spending a minute of their day, inhaling each other's presence; letting their thoughts focus on the even breaths and the familiar scent. It's about taking a minute to appreciate the miracle that they have met, at the right time and in the right place – the two souls made for each other meeting in this vast universe.

He kisses her temple and runs his hands over her body, breaking the moment – the quiet poignancy dissipating with a simple touch; the electricity too distracting. Their electricity, the power of it, forever too distracting.

"Did you finish the article?" She looks up, getting lost in his eyes momentarily.

"I did. Sent it in around 4 this morning."

"You didn't wait for me." She says it jokingly, but somewhere, deep inside – it stings, just a little bit. She wanted to be the first one to read it.

"I emailed it to you too. So if you get up now, you can probably be the first one to see it." She props herself on her elbows and kisses him, murmuring a soft "Thank you," against his lips.

"I'll read it as soon as I shower." And she jumps out of bed, before he can snatch her back; pull her back in, and kiss her swollen lips. If he did; she'd never leave.

"I'm wounded," he says as he falls down on the pillow, pulling the covers up. She pulls his Navy t-shirt over her head and throws it at him, before skipping to the bathroom.

"Go back to sleep," she yells from the shower, "I finish at five, and you can pick me up, and we can cook dinner and finalize the Spring Break plans." She doesn't get an answer, and she just smiles as the hot water runs down her body – he's already asleep. She watches him as she gets ready, all sex-hair and bare chest; a satisfied smile on his face. He's happy and it makes her so infinitely happy; happier than she ever thought she could be.

* * *

He's standing under the elm tree, on the soft green grass that's just poking up. He hears her before he sees her – a kind reminder that she's coming, a kind reminder giving him time to look up, to see her come out into the sunlight. Her smile is wide; she laughs throwing her head back and closing her eyes.

He still loves her smile; loves the way she laughs, loudly, but earnestly, the way she gets lost in it; the way her lips form a grin, exposing her white teeth. He loves that he knows that she scrunches her nose and shuts her eyes only when she finds something truly funny; when she's courtesy-laughing her eyes stay open and her nose doesn't move; he loves that he now knows that she doesn't bring the hand up to her face to calm herself down, but to brush off the small tears that escape her eyes when she _really_ laughs. Sometimes, sometimes she still looks so sad, and he wants to ask; he wants to know what happened, what happened to her dad, so that he could take the pain away; so that he could make it better. But he never does, afraid, that it would only further shatter her, further expose her brokenness. So, moments like this, moments of bliss, moments in which she's happy – they're everything. He could just stand there and watch her laugh; for a lifetime. He could just look at her, and that, that would be enough.

She says goodbye to Abby and walks over to him and his two cups of coffee.

"Hi." He bends down and gives her a quick kiss.

She lets out the cutest grunt in protest, "That's all I get?"

He smiles, his forehead leaning on hers, then pulls her up. He kisses her slowly – the rhythm of their tongues matching the movements of his hand on her ass and her fingers in his hair. They're lost for a moment – no notion of appropriate, of time, or of space – oblivious to the fact that there's anyone in the Universe, but them. They finally break for air, their foreheads still glued together. She looks up into his eyes and smiles, "Now that was better." She grabs one of the coffees from the cardboard holder in his hand, impressed he managed not to drop or spill it. He wraps his arm around her waist, grabbing her bag and throwing it over his shoulder, and she rests hers loosely in his back pocket, leaning her head on his bicep. She can't reach the shoulder, no for that she needs heels.

"How was your day?"

"Well, I read this amazing article, by my boyfriend." She smiles, but doesn't look at him, instead batting her lashes flirtatiously.

"Is that so?" He plays along.

"Mhmmmm. He's pretty great you know."

"Well he must be, if he managed to get you to date him." She finally looks at him. She's blushing, still not used to the way he sees her, the way he seems to find her fascinating and attractive; adorable and charming; inspiring and exciting, all at the same time. She's still not used to the way he looks at her, the way his eyes seem to cloud when they meet hers; the way desire darkens them. It still makes her heart beat faster; it still makes her stomach flutter.

"I love you." That's all she can come up with in response; everything else seems insignificant, insufficient.

"I love you too." And he pulls her in, just a little bit closer. They walk back, going over his article – she points out the things she loved, and the things she liked, but disagreed with, and they argue over it – passionately, talking quickly, smiling every time either one makes an excellent point – it's not about winning, because them, doing this, together – they've already won; it's about becoming better by learning from a person they love the most. They don't stop even when they get home, dropping their stuff to the floor, and starting dinner. He chops everything, because she has no chopping skills – she'd cut off her finger, before cutting up three carrot sticks. She stir-fries it; dancing around the kitchen, while he checks his emails and sets the table.

"I cannot believe he did this!" She instantly stops dancing, dropping the spatula in the wok. She knows that tone, she's heard it before; it's the voice reserved for his father. So she just inhales, and stands there quietly, waiting for him to say it – she wants to give him time to calm down, to process whatever it is that the Devil did. "He sent my stuff to the New York Times. It's so much like him. I mean really-"

Shit! "Fitz-" She tries to interrupt him, but he doesn't hear anything, not right now, he just carries on.

"He just took it and sent it. Applied on my behalf for an internship. I mean he can't _not_ meddle. He can't let me do my own thing. He can't let me just be. Nope, he has to swoop in, control me, make sure I'm doing something. Can't be just writing, have to be doing something with it."

"Fitz!" She says it louder now; desperate to interrupt him, but still, he doesn't notice.

"He doesn't get it. He doesn't get that I'm a grown man, that I make my own choices, that I'm capable of deciding for myself what I want and when I want it. But no, he doesn't get that. He just manipulates me into things, forces them on me."

"Fitz!" She yells, loudly, too loudly, but it does the trick. He stops pacing instantly, focusing on her momentarily. "It wasn't him. I did it."

"What?" His face is a grimace, of pain and betrayal, anger subsiding and hurt swooping in.

"I sent it." Her voice is quiet, a whisper almost; her eyes fixed on the floor. "You kept saying you weren't good enough to get it. And I thought you were. I think you are. I think you're amazing, not just good enough. So I sent some of your stuff. I figured if you didn't get it, no harm done, and if you did… I thought it would be a good thing."

"That's not the point!" He yells, anger returning to his face. "You lied to me. You handled me. You fixed this _for_ me."

She can feel her eyes welling up, but she refuses to cry. No. He needs to hear her out and that's not going to happen if she's sobbing uncontrollably. So she draws in a deep breath, readying for a fight. "I didn't lie to you. I just didn't tell you."

"Oh, come on! Don't lawyer me Liv, this isn't debating. You lied and you handled me. You didn't like what I was doing, you didn't like where I was going, so you just fixed this for me. You fixed me."

"Fitz!" Now she's yelling too. She's on the defensive, trying to justify herself. "I sent in a few articles, because you were afraid to-"

"I was not afraid! I didn't want it. OK? I didn't want the internship. I didn't want to do the journalism thing. I just wanted to be writing. But that wasn't good enough for you. That wasn't enough. Me just writing, wasn't impressive, it wasn't glitz, it wasn't great enough for Liv, so you just applied for me, knowing I'd say yes once I got it; knowing I'm too much of a Grant to not do it."

"Yeah. I knew you'd do it once you got it, because only a moron would pass up an opportunity to-"

"So, now I'm a moron? For wanting to just write, for me."

"Oh, come on! Stop with the artistic crap!" She startles herself when she says it, but forces out the rest of it. "You don't write for yourself. You publish articles all the time. You love it. You love that people read them, you love the comments, you love all of it. You're not a tortured artist, struggling, as much as you want to be. You're a privileged, well-educated guy, with a sharp mind. You're well connected and people like what you have to say. Make use of it! Anything else is idiotic." It's too much. She can tell because his face falls, the anger deflating; old insecurities creeping in. She's reduced him to a caricature, a shell of who he is. She tried to snap him out of it; she was arguing to win – not to make up. She screwed up and she feels like crap. She needs to fix it, she wants to fix it, but before she can come up with anything to say, he's picking up his jacket and the door closes behind him.

He walks out into the cold night, his bind abuzz. She doesn't see him. She sees an idea of him – the idea infinitely more appealing. She sees her projection of him – the vision in which he has a plan, in which his life pans out; in which he achieves things, great things. But he can't do it. He can never achieve those things. He's not good enough. Not without his father. She'll push him and he'll try, and then, one day – he'll fail. And she'll realize he's not the guy, the guy she thought he was. She'll realize she wasted her time and she'll leave him. One day she'll realize he's not good enough.

He goes over the things he said, the awful things he yelled; over the things she said, things she shot at him. He goes over them as he downs another scotch, playing with the glass in his hand. The ice glides along the bottom as he tilts it, the lights fragmenting like the images of her standing there, in the kitchen; it clinks as it hits the side of the glass, the sound echoing like the words they spoke in haste. He motions the bartender for another one, losing his balance as his elbow leaves the sticky surface of the bar. The brown liquid feels sweet, too sweet, it doesn't burn him; it no longer numbs the searing pain in his chest; it's completely useless. He throws the money on the pile of nutshells, grabs his jacket and walks out – failing miserably to follow a straight line.

He steps outside, a heavy drops and a cool breeze sobering him up.

He needs to apologize. She was right. He was afraid. She was right. He does want it. She saw him; she sees him – and she loves him anyway. He just can't wrap his mind around that. She sees his faults, she sees his weaknesses and she still loves him. His whole life he tried to be perfect; to achieve the impossible – to impress his father; because only achievement could breed love, only perfection could breed affection. But she sees him for who he is, she sees the imperfections, the failures, the fears; she doesn't see invincibility, she sees vulnerability – and she loves him for it. She loves him for who he is. And he can't wrap his mind around it. He pauses before unlocking the door, taking a moment to gather his thoughts; but when he finally opens it – he can tell, she's not there. He kicks a chair, knocking it to the floor, then chastises himself as the loud noise echoes. She must have gone home. He grabs his keys from the table and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

"Liv here?" He asks, as water drips from his hair, drops rolling down his face. Abby just stares at him for a moment, a mix of pity and anger on her face.

"She's asleep." He wants to ask to see her, to wake her, to talk to her. He needs to talk to her. He can't fall asleep when they're fighting. But he doesn't do it. She's asleep and it would be selfish. To wake her now would be selfish.

"Tell her I came by? And I love her. And I'm sorry." He just stands in the doorway for another moment, going over all the words floating in his head – he can't come up with anything else to say. Nothing else. So he just shakes his head, as if trying to clear it by moving it through the frisk air.

"OK." She keeps the door open until he turns away; she doesn't have it in her to shut it in his face. He looks so broken already; so lost; so sorry. He turns away after giving her a weak smile, and walks out into the rain. He doesn't mind it. He actually quite likes it. How the drops feel on his face – how the heavy ones burn when they fall on the skin, dropping from the night sky oh-so-quickly; how the smaller ones tickle; how they all trickle down, with tears.

"Ftiz!" He turns around instantly. He can't see her clearly. It's too dark, the rain too heavy. "I'm sorry." She yells as she runs to him.

"No, Liv-"

"Let me say this!" She's running towards him, approaching quickly. "I'm sorry. Not that I sent it, but that I didn't tell you I did it. I should have talked to you about it; told you I thought you were good enough, instead of doing it behind your back. I'm sorry. But I never, ever, thought you weren't enough. Ever. Even if all you want to do is just write, never publish any of it – that's fine. I just, I just feel like it's such a waste of potential. When I read the stuff you write, it makes me smile and it makes me cry and it makes me think and re-thing things. Your writing _feels _amazing. And I just wanted you to share it, to let other people feel it. But I should have just told you that. But you know, I just, I don't know how to do this, how to say things; I never, my dad; I… I could never just say things. The way he felt things, it was, it was always too heavy. So I'd just do something, and tell him when it worked. I'm sorry. I know that's not… I'm sorry. I didn't want to manipulate you. I never wanted you to feel like I was handling you." She draws in a sharp breath, trying to compensate for the sudden loss of air.

"You were right! And I'm sorry." He says, as he steps towards her – their noses almost touching. "I was afraid and I overreacted and I'm sorry. I just, every time someone did something like this to me – it was to manipulate me, to get me to do what they wanted. And you, you just did it for me; to help me. I'm sorry I couldn't see it. I was a dick. I want the internship. Of course I want the internship Liv. You were right – I'm not a struggling artist type; it's not me and it's not who I want to be. I want the publicity and the discussion that arises from good writing. I want the social aspect of it. So thank you… for seeing me, past me."

"So, you're not angry?" She asks, her voice breaking. He hates himself for it.

"Not anymore. Just… Next time, talk to me. Abby said you were sleeping?" Sometimes he really is clueless.

"I can't sleep when we're fighting."

And before she can say anything else, before she can try to explain again, he's in closing the space between them; his lips crushing on hers hungrily. The cold rain runs down their hot skin; the small drops clinging to their eyelashes, then falling as they get too heavy, and rolling down their cheeks. They travel from one cheek to the other; from his skin to hers. They kiss, lost between the raindrops. He traces her lover lip with his tongue and she instantly lets him in. She twirls hers around the tip of his, teasing him; before sliding hers into his mouth slowly, gliding it along the top of his. Their lips break apart for a moment, the drops rolling down, cooling the swollen skin; but their tongues stay intertwined, dueling. He sucks on hers, biting it lightly; his teeth grazing the soft surface as she tries to move it. She pushes it in deeper in response, tilting her head as she runs her fingers though his wet hair. They don't know how long they stay like that; how long they breathe each other's air; how long they let the rain fall on them, wash the things they said, the hurt they felt – away. He feels her shiver – and that's when he finally pulls away, his forehead still only a fraction of inch away, as he looks down, into her dazed eyes. She just takes his hand and guides him back to her place. They help each other get out of the wet clothes; peel it off, kissing along the trail of raindrops. They crawl into bed, and into each other – suddenly warm; perfectly at home.

* * *

**So there were a couple of paragraphs from Ch3 that I rewrote for this, for contrasting purposes. And how about Liv not being able to chop anything, when in Another Chance she's like the carrot-stick master. And another random thing, since I seem to be on the roll of randomness here; the title is a Lifehouse song, which I thought you might find interesting, because the title of the story is a Lifehouse song as well (but I'm really tired and my perception of interesting might be slightly off, kinda like Cy's moral compass). **

**Thank you all for reviewing this and sticking with the story – your support and encouragement is what keeps it going!**


	11. Island in the Sun

**Like I have no excuse for not updating this... except - the closer I get to the end the less my brain seems willing to cooperate. But it's still some way away. And this is mostly fluff and smut so I hope you'll enjoy that.**

_We'll run away together_  
_We'll spend some time forever_  
_We'll never feel bad anymore_  
Weezer, Island in the Sun

* * *

"Livvie…" He whispers in her hair, gently tapping her shoulder, "We're about to land." She stirs slightly, and lets out an annoyed groan, nuzzling closer to him, until she can feel the pulse in his neck against her forehead. Steady. Soothing. She feels the laugh that escapes his lungs, she feels it travel up, out of his throat, until she can hear it leaving his mouth. "You need to wake up." She just shakes her head against his shoulder, a faint smile growing on her face. He kisses her temple, and she can feel herself melting again, drifting off to sleep. But then his hands are around her waist – tickling. She shoots up, instantly awake, and gives him a death glare. He stops, and smiles, the Grant smile, the one that's filled with charm; the charm that usually makes her knees go weak, and her reason disappear, but not now – now she's sleepy and irrationally angry. "Oh, come on Livvie…" And he tries to kiss her, but she turns her head away as she buckles her seatbelt.

"Well excuse me, for being tired. I didn't get a whole lot of rest last night." She says pointedly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

He smirks and leans to whisper in her ear, "Well I don't recall you complaining last night. Actually, I have fairly vivid memories of you asking me _not_ to stop-"

"Oh, shut up." She slaps his arm lightly and looks at him, finally smiling. "I hate you."

"I hate you too." And he lays a soft kiss on her lips.

They land mere minutes later, with a loud screech of tires against the runway and flap of breaks against the wind. They're the first ones off the plane, the first ones through the passport check and the first ones to grab their oversized and over-stuffed bags. They step outside, the bright sunlight blinding them momentarily, the soft breeze ticking their skin, the smell of sea salt filling their nostrils. Before she can take in her surroundings, he's pulling her towards a small cab. The driver gives them a half-hearted smile and lazily puts his papers down. He walks over to the trunk, wobbling slightly, and they avoid each other's eyes for the fear of bursting into uncontrollable laughter. He opens the trunk and steps aside, clearly content to leave the heavy lifting to Fitz. With each bag the car gets weighed down closer to the ground and she wonders if they'll be able to move, but decides to just get in when the driver seems utterly unconcerned. Fitz slips in next to her and smiles politely to the driver as he turns on the meter and turns around, all wide-eyes and high-eyebrows.

"To the Marina please." Fitz says in a soft tone that she doesn't think she's ever heard him use before, and she chuckles lightly, making the driver turn around, _while _driving. "Watch out!" Fitz exclaims, loudly, making the driver step on the break, and them fly forward and then jerk back. An old lady walks in front of the car, pushing her walker, clearly unfazed. The driver just grunts something under his breath, shooting Fitz an angry look before honking loudly and shouting something, as he pushes his upper half through the window. The old lady shouts back, gives him a finger, and then proceeds to cross the street at snail's pace. The driver just keeps on honking, and what they can only assume is cursing, then as soon as the old lady is close to the side of the car, he hits the gas, swerves around, missing her frail hips by a mere inch, and barely avoiding a road sign. They drive through the narrow streets, making sharp turns at warp speed. She's firmly clutching his shirt, and he's holding on to the grab handle for dear life; his other arm firmly wrapped around her waist. The car speeds down a steep hill, and suddenly they can see the sapphire blue sea; the calm water looks like the perfect sanctuary. The white dots grow into lavish yachts and the death-cab finally pulls to a halt. She steps outside, her legs shaky, and not in the good way; she sees stars, but again, not in a good way. She lets out a breath that she hadn't realized she was holding, as she tries to find her balance on a pair of unsteady feet. Fitz steps out as well and he looks green; she'd laugh if she had the energy. He walks over to the trunk and gets the bags out, breathing heavily. He gives the driver a scrunched up note and for the first time the man offers them a genuine smile.

"You need me to pick you up, sir?"

"Oh…um… that's OK. We'll manage." And with that he grabs the bags quickly, clearly abuzz with a new wave of energy, and heads to the pier. He stops in front of a small speedboat, then turns around to look at her, grinning, "What do you think?"

She gives him a polite smile, unsure of what her reaction to the boat should be. It's pretty enough, but she's never been into boats, and she knows nothing about them, so her appreciation of it can only go so far. Seeing her confused expression he points to the letters. "You named a boat after me," she utters in a soft tone, her polite smile stretching into a sheepish grin.

He just nods his head and crosses over to where she's standing. "Well I think _Livvy _is a lot more fitting than Gertrude, don't you?"

She wraps her arms around his midsection, her hands resting comfortably on his ass. "It was called Gertrude before?" She says, chuckling against his lips.

"Yeah." He utters between feather-light kisses. "After my grandmother."

"Oh, did she like boats?"

"She died on the Titanic." He stutters out, a soft crack in his voice.

"Oh, god I'm so sorry." She says panicking, looking up at him.

He just laughs heartily. "I'm messing with you! Seriously, how old would my parents have to be if one of their mothers died in 1912?" She turns red, then turns away and jumps on the boat gracefully. "Oh, come on Livvy! That was funny." He says, pleading, as he throws the bags onboard.

She turns around, her eyes teary, her voice shaky, when she finally speaks. "It's just that…" He jumps on as well, running to where she's standing, pulling her into a tight embrace, "It's just that… I was in this boating accident when I was five and I… just…" Her voice is broken up by quiet sobs.

"Oh, god Livvy. I'm so sorry. I was a dick."

She steps out of his embrace quickly, grinning triumphantly as she wipes off the fake tears. "Yes, you were." She just chuckles at his dumbfounded face and exclaims happily, "got you!" before proceeding to one of the seats.

He just shakes his head silently, as he unmoors the boat, then heads to the controls.

"You know what you're doing, right?" She asks grinning.

"We'll find out." And with that he's turning the boat and speeding away from the shore. She closes her eyes, listening to the soft hum of the engine interrupted rhythmically by crashing waves; enjoying the feel of warm spring sun on her skin. She hears him humming, and she opens her eyes. His curls are dancing in the wind, as his shirt flies behind him, the sun hitting his chest, the brightness of the light accentuating his abs. She tries to commit the image to memory, to remember every single detail, for later, for some day; for a day when he's away, and she's be missing him, or for a day when they fight and she needs to forgive him; or just a night when she needs a happy memory to fight the blood she sees on her hands when she closes her eyes. She tries to remember how the aviators rest just under his furrowed brows; how he mouths the words, but doesn't sing them; how he taps his fingers on the flat surface. How he looks at her, and instantly smiles; how the smile is crooked, almost embarrassed, bashful even.

"What?" He asks.

_He raises his eyebrows when he's trying to figure me out _– she thinks to herself, another thing to commit to memory. "Nothing." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then tilts her head. "It's just… You're singing Wannabe." And she laughs, bringing her hand to her mouth.

"Hey. That's because you dragged me to that god-awful party!"

"Yeah, because that's how you remembered the lyrics." And she gets up and walks over to him, wrapping her arms around him, resting her cheek on his back. _He smells like cool air, like pine trees and a fresh mint; like old books and espresso. He smells like home._ She tries to remember it, commit it to memory; the smell of him; the smell of her feeling happy. The smell of feeling of belonging; of loving, unconditionally, unreservedly.

"There it is." She follows his outstretched arm and sees a small island appearing on the horizon.

"It's tiny."

"Yeah, it is." He says, pulling her to his side, and kissing her head softly. "Just for us Livvy."

"You didn't tell me it's a private island!"

"You would have said it's too much."

"It_ is_ too much." She protests, looking at him disapprovingly, but the corners of her lips betray her, yet again.

He bends down and kisses her quickly, letting his forehead linger on hers for a moment. "We have to cram when we get back, and it will be library all-day every-day. It'll be food out of vending machines, endless supply of god-awful coffee, overwhelming stress and hysterical laughter fits at 3am. So, we need some downtime before the insanity, and I wanted it to be just us. Just you and me, Livvy." His voice, his voice when he says – Livvy – it's the warm feeling in her stomach, it's butterflies doing a dance, it's her knees going weak and her forehead pressed against his_. Remember this. _It's love in a tone, in the softness of his voice. It's him giving Livvy a whole new meaning, a lightness that she loves, unburdened by the scars of the past.

"OK." She replies softly, her warm breath tickling his lips. "You should probably focus on the boat now, don't you think." She says with a coy wink, then turns around and walks back to where she was sitting.

As they pull up to the pier she can't help but let out a, "wow," it's quiet, almost lost in the wind, but he hears it, and the awe in her voice, the glimmer in her eyes, the way her lips are slightly parted, her child-like glee; it makes him happy. It fills him up, makes his lungs expand, his heart beat fast. It makes him want to kiss her until they're out of breath and seeing stars; until their lips are swollen and their tongues tender; until every sensation feels like it's too much, like it might be the last one, because what they're feeling is too good, too great; they might burst.

He stops the boat and throws the ropes onto the pier, trying to lasso the noose around the wooden pillar. He turns around, once he gets it, doing a little victory dance. She laughs, throwing her head back slightly, closing her eyes. He just looks at her, an unconscious smile stretching across his lips_. Remember it. He wants to remember this._ The sound of the laugh that makes him feel so alive; the way it rings, like crystal bells chiming; how it comes from the very pit of her stomach. _Remember, how happy she is_. How she wipes the little drops from the corners of her eyes with her index finger. _Remember, for a rainy afternoon when she's away and he's missing her. Remember, for a morning when he wakes up and she's gone on a run. Remember, for a night when they say their goodbyes over the phone. Remember, for that moment at the airport when he'll have to let her go._

"This house is amazing," she says as they walk in through the glass doors. She spins in the middle of the room, looking up at the high ceiling, at the patters that the light is making on it. There are shards of glass hanging along the windowed wall, and as they twirl on the thin threads small pieces of rainbows dance along the walls. There's something so magical about it, the way their damage is their beauty; the way their sharp edges reflect the light so softly.

"Come on." He calls from the stairs, and she runs after him. She stops as they reach the gallery and takes another look at the ceiling. It's closer now, the rainbows seem bigger, the colors softer – they change so seamlessly – she can't tell where one ends and the other one begins.

She stands in the doorway and watches him drop the bags and open the curtains. As the bright light floods the room, he turns around and looks at her, a soft smile playing on his lips. He walks over to where she's standing and wraps his arms loosely around her waist letting his hands rest on low on her hips.

"Hi."

She props herself on her toes and kisses him softly, smiling against the familiar lips. "Hi." He tightens his hold on her slightly, pulling her closer and she wraps her arms around his neck, letting her fingers play with his hair. "This place is beautiful. Thank you." And she looks up at him, her eyes speaking volumes, saying all the things that are on her mind, in her heart.

"I'm glad you like it." And he kisses her neck. "It used to be my favorite place."

"Oh, yeah?" She asks, tilting her head slightly to the other side, so he can lay another kiss. He just smiles, and obliges, moving his hands to her ass.

"Yeah. We used to come here all the time. My parents and I." And he can feel her stiffen momentarily; he never talks about it; anything involving his parents, or his childhood. She knows snippets, things she's heard; things he's said, mentioned in passing; but she never got the whole story, or even an outline of it.

She opens her dazed eyes, and leans back in his arms, trying to get a better look at him. "You want to tell me about it." He just shakes his head, then steps away, grabbing her hand. He kicks his shoes off and jumps onto the bed, and pulls her up, provoking a loud, "What are you doing?" He just grins and throws his arms up in the air, before jumping. She just stares at him, her expression a mix of shock and joy, as she nervously bites her lower lip.

"Jump with me Liv." And he keeps on jumping, pulling his knees up higher and higher, each time. "Come on! You know you want to!" She kicks her shoes off tenderly, then jumps, her feet barely leaving the mattress; her hands hanging by her sides. "Oh, come on!" And he gives her a daring look, the one he knows she can't resist; she's too competitive. Suddenly, she's jumping with him, reaching for his hand as her other arm travels through the warm air.

"This… is… amazing." She says breathily. She collapses onto the bed, her eyes closed, as she pulls him down as well. He lies on his beck and she nuzzles into his side, her head resting on his chest; listening to the thumping of his heart. She runs her hand up his bare abs, and then back down, lifting it slightly up, until its only the very tips of her fingers that are touching his warm skin.

"Livvy…" He utters in that baritone that makes her shiver. He opens his eyes slowly, and they're dark, that familiar shade that makes her muscles clench; that glimmer that makes her thighs quiver. He slowly runs his hand up her leg, sneaking it under the hem of her skirt. He runs his thumb on the inside of her thigh, pausing at her center, as his index finger plays with the rim of her panties. She turns on her back and pulls him by the collar, kissing his jaw, before letting her lips crash on his. He pulls down on her skirt and she lifts her back slightly, grinding against him. He moans in her mouth and she sneaks her hands under the waistband of his shorts, squeezing his ass, as she presses her thigh against his growing erection. He pulls her camisole over her head, exposing her bare breasts. He peppers soft kisses down the side of her face, nibbling on her neck, biting her collarbone lightly. She arches her back as he sucks on her nipple; her hands feverishly unbuckling his belt and finding their way inside his underwear. She wraps her hand around his length, and smears the pre-cum on his tip with her thumb, before tugging. He lets out a growl against the soft skin of her stomach and she smirks, looking down at him. He reaches for her hand, and puts it behind her head, "Now keep it there. No distracting me Livvy."

"But what if I want to-" but before she can finish his thumb is pressing her clit, and her eyes are falling shut, as he grazes the skin over her hipbone with his teeth, blowing hot air over her wet slit. His tongue is playing with her swollen bundle of nerves, sucking and flicking and she lets out a thready "oh god," as he slides two of his fingers in, curving them up. She pulls on his hair as he picks up the pace, his teeth gently scraping her clit. She feels her orgasm building, low in her stomach, the sensation spreading to her toes, as she pushes her head back into the mattress. And then it's rippling through her, her mouth agape, her hands in his hair; her body quivering in the rhythm he set. Once she stills he pulls out his fingers and licks them, relishing her essence. She pulls him up, blindly guiding him to her lips. She can taste herself on his tongue, and it makes her moan in his mouth. His throbbing erection is rubbing against her thigh. "I need you inside. Now."

And she reaches between their bodies, guiding his member to her opening. He slides in slowly and it takes her a moment to adjust, to accommodate him. As he pulls out and slides back in, she wraps her legs around his waist, adjusting the angle – she needs more of him, all of him. As he pulls out again, she clenches her muscles and he growls, his sweaty forehead falling on her shoulder. She runs her hands down his back, digging her nails into the heated flesh as he slides in again. She can't breathe. There are too many sensations in her body – her skin feels on fire, and her insides are in a tight knot; her lungs constricted – his every touch, every move inside her brings her closer to the edge; makes it impossible to think, to speak, to breathe; to do anything but feel _him_. Her hips match the rhythm of his; their intertwined fingers pressed into the mattress; their lips feverishly seeking out burning flesh. Instinct. They're like one – their limbs entangled their bodies perfectly in sync.

"Look at me Livvy." And she opens her heavy eyelids, her eyes meeting his. And she doesn't know if it's the baritone, the dark desire and the soft glimmer; his thumb caressing the back of her hand; or him sliding in – harder, deeper, faster – but she's calling out his name, as her body shudders, as her muscles clench around him. And she can feel him spilling inside her, the warm liquid tricking down her thighs as he collapses on his forearms. He rolls on his back, lazily, and they try to catch their breaths, their fingers still interlaced.

"That was…"

"Amazing." He finishes the sentence for her, kissing her shoulder softly. He turns to his side and lays his head just above her breast. She runs her hand though his hair, as he puts his arm on her waist. They lie like that for a while, in a comfortable silence, the sound of their steady breaths mixed with the distant hum of waves. But then he speaks, and she lets him. She knows that this, this isn't about her, not really; it's about him saying it; out loud; for the very first time.

"He doesn't know how to love." She runs her fingers from the nape of his neck, along his hairline, playing with his ear. He kisses her breast tenderly before continuing. "My father, he, he just doesn't know how to love. My mother, she, she loved him. In her own way, she loved him. But he… he never loved her. And there… there were always girls. His secretaries and my nannies; pretty girls; young girls; girls who found him impressive, who saw him as Big Gerry. And she knew. She always knew. And it was fine. Because he'd sleep with them, he'd fuck them in his office and then he'd leave them; he'd fire them; throw them away. And he'd come back to her. And she loved it; that part she loved; she took pride in it. She was always the chosen one. She interpreted it as love. She needed him to love her, so much. She just wanted to be loved.

"But then, two years ago, he started screwing his assistant. But this time, this time it was different. He fell for her. He didn't love her. He doesn't know how. But he liked her, and for Big Gerry… that's as close to love as he can get. He took her places, he introduced her to people. She wasn't a dirty little secret. And my mother, my mother couldn't handle it. She begged him, she begged him to leave her, she threatened to leave him, but he, he didn't care. So she, she did the only thing she thought could hurt him, she tried to destroy the only thing he cared about. She told a _Chronicle _journalist that my father's company had a tax evasion scheme. She said that it was run through the company set up on this island. The journalist tipped Big Gerry off and he discredited her, saying she was bitter, old and insane; and he gave the reporter an exclusive on her _mental breakdown_. She didn't have one. Not at the time. But after, after the story came out. She lost it. She cut her hair off, she locked herself in her room and she stopped talking. We had her committed. She's gone now. I mean she's… she's still there, but not really; my mom… she's gone. And I thought… I thought that she had lied. He told me she had lied and I believed him. I needed to believe him. Then last summer, I found some documents in his desk drawer. She was right. She told the truth. They do have a scheme. My whole life, my happiest memories – they were all lies. He used us; he used his own family as a front, a way to save money. It wasn't about being rich; it was about him wanting to win; cheat the system and win."

She can feel a tear on her skin and she pulls his face up gently. She kisses his jaw. Then his cheek. Then his other cheek. Then under his eyes, then his eyelids. He nuzzles his head in the crook of her neck and breathes out, the cool air filled with her intoxicating scent filling his lungs. "It wasn't all lies." She says softly. She massages his scalp, before continuing. "The memories. If they're happy; if you were happy – that's not a lie; that, that was a real feeling. You were happy. You and your mom, you had fun, you laughed, you played in the water and built castles in the sand. That, those aren't lies. His life is a lie, not yours. You, Fitzgerald Grant, are the most honest man I know."

"I love you." He murmurs into her skin, not wanting to lift his head up, to lose contact. He needs her, all of her. They don't leave the bed for the rest of the day. They lie there; the thin white sheets crumbled beneath their bodies. Their hands caress the exposed skin. They memorize the smiles, the laughs; the eyelashes that flutter and the white teeth that peek behind the swollen lips. They memorize the shades of bruised skin, and the indulgent pain that sears through the body as it falls over the edge, filled to the brim; the rhythm of chests heaving; the content smiles. They memorize the feeling of floating, weightless, content. Of their fingers interlaced.

As they sit on the beach, the next day, watching the sun set, as the water turns a deep purple; he nibbles on her neck, his hand cupping her breast.

"We're not having sex on the beach." She says chucking, tilting her head to give him better access.

"Why not." He asks as he reaches for her bikini strap.

"Because..." and she runs her hand through his hair, "it's a terrible idea. It seems great. In movies, it seems amazing. But really, it'll be sweaty bodies, and sand sticking to our skin, and reaching parts that sand should never reach." He laughs against her skin and she uses the opportunity to wiggle out of his embrace. She runs to the water, standing at the edge, watching the waves hit her feet and then retreat. He wraps his arms around her and rests his jaw on her shoulder.

"Thank you." She just looks up at him, quizzically. "For being you. For seeing me and loving me. I just… I'm happy. You make me so happy." He doesn't tell her that he can hear their kids' laughter echoing through the house, that he can imagine their small feet in the sand; that he can imagine their smiles and their eyes. No, that, that would be too much.

She smiles, looking into the fading sun, then closes her eyes. "I'm happy too. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm utterly happy. It's no longer bittersweet. It's no longer happiness interrupted by moments of brokenness. I feel complete. And I feel happy." She doesn't look at him. She keeps her eyes shut. She's terrified. Because, for the first time in her life she feels like she has too much to lose; she feels like she's reached the point of no return. She can't imagine a life without him; a life in which she isn't this happy. And that, that is terrifying. And she can't let him see the fear, it's too much; she can't let him see how much she needs him. So she closes her eyes and lets the waning sun color her mind.

* * *

**To the guest reviewers how asked me to update, and those of you who messaged me - it's what got me writing so thanks - A LOT! Honestly, all your reviews, for all my stories, even the completed ones - they just make me so happy. I love reading what you think and how you interpret things. Anyways, I just wanted to take a sentimental moment to say that I REALLY, REALLY appreciate it :) **


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